


Kingsman: The Highlands Liaison

by heavensfallingaroundus, MissFreckles



Category: Bodyguard (TV 2018), Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: A new secret organisation, Action, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Badass!Roxy, Bondage, Canon Compliant - Kingsman: The Golden Circle, Cocaine, Confessions, Criminal Masterminds, David Budd as Agent Wallace, David Budd is basically James Bond, Double Honeypot, Eggsy is going to Scotland, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Harry Hart as Arthur, Hartwin Angst, Killer spy gadgets, M/M, Madderton Spy AU, Mysterious disappearances, Overly romantic strolls through Rome, Post-Kingsman: The Golden Circle, Recreational Drug Use, Romantic Tension, Secret Spy Kiltmakers, Semi Canon-Compliant: Bodyguard, Slow Burn, dumbass villain monologues, idiots to lovers, slow burn resolution baby, they finally actually bone y'all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:13:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 174,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24394813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFreckles/pseuds/MissFreckles
Summary: Clansman, the Scottish secret organisation based between Glasgow and the Highlands, has been part of the Kingsman-Statesman axis for a number of years when, in February 2020, seemingly out of the blue, bodies start disappearing from morgues and gravesites in Northern Europe and Scotland, creating a pattern that Hume, the Clansman quartermaster, thinks deserving of deeper investigation.The candidates for this perilous mission?The Clansman Agent: one David Budd, codename Wallace, army veteran, master of undercover operations, showing signs of mild-to-moderate PTSD, and in desperate need of a babysitter.His designated babysitter: one Gary “Eggsy” Unwin, codename Galahad, sexually frustrated recent divorcee with daddy issues and a massive kink for dangerous situations, temporarily on loan from Kingsman to Clansman (much to Harry Hart’s dismay).So begins the heroic tale of a somewhat disastrous partnership, multiple avoidable misunderstandings, mind control, and genetically-modified bugs.
Relationships: David Budd/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin, Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin, Taron Egerton/Richard Madden
Comments: 505
Kudos: 192





	1. Preambulum

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, welcome, one and all, to another installment of "let's post something new and exciting on a Tuesday and let's drive ourselves insane trying to keep a tight schedule"!
> 
> Oh, I have missed this. And folks, this won't be happening were it not for the wonderful soul that is [MissFreckles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFreckles/pseuds/MissFreckles), who put the reason to my rhyme and found an actual plot for what would essentially otherwise just have been a Madderton AU set in the Kingsman world—give or take a few admittedly groovy details that were there, alright, but do trust me when I say this: everything _really_ cool here is 100% coming from her. This story was but a teeny weeny prompt in my head that popped up the last time I watched Golden Circle and was titillated by Champagne mentioning a distillery in Scotland, then morphed into a discussion with my lovely friends [supposeforthesakeof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supposeforthesakeof) and [Kuchra28](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuhcra28/pseuds/Kuhcra28) that got stashed away for a rainy day (i.e. I was having a major case of writer's block and my creativity was dead). Then, seemingly out of nowhere, M came along, and her priceless contribution turned it into what we both hope will become an incredible epic that we simply cannot wait to share with all youse, in full. But enough of my usual rambling, let me leave the stage to the woman, the angel, the _genius_ herself.
> 
> I am so thrilled and terrified to be finally sharing this little passion project with you. It has been a labour of love over the past weeks, and I’m sure in the weeks to come. There has definitely been some blood, sweat and tears that has gone into this, and definitely more than a few sleepless nights, on my part at the very least.  
> This is only my second project on the archive and my contributions definitely would not exist (in any form, this project or otherwise) without C and her giant leap of faith. So, thank you so much. You are really the greatest person and such an amazing writer, I am blessed to be working with you.  
> C has been my ultimate cheerleader, holding my hand (virtually) through this entire process and has done her best to reassure me that my ideas and writing skills are not as crappy as I think they are. Most importantly, listened and took me seriously when I started babbling about this awful bug dream I had and how I thought it would make an interesting spy mission/plotline. It was ever so fortunate that my strange little frightening mission idea fit so well in her idea for this crossover story, because it is such a fabulous one, and definitely deserves to see the light of day. It has been such a pleasure playing with these boys and girls so far, and I hope you enjoy them too.
> 
> Now, lovely folks, without further ado: let's do this.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A proposal.  
> A conundrum.  
> A loan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some boring but very important admin for you lovely people: the Clansman folks are all named after prominent personalities from Scottish history.  
> The ones you are about to meet in this chapter are:
> 
> \- **Hume** , "street" name Andrew Moore, Clansman quartermaster (played by Jamie Bell)  
> \- **Robert the Bruce** , "street" name Douglas MacMillan, Chief of Clansman (played by Sir Sean Connery)  
> \- **Agent Wallace** , "street" name David Budd, Clansman's best agent ( _obviously_ played by Richard Madden)
> 
> And some more casting decisions, if the moodboard wasn't explicit enough:  
> \- **Dr. Skye Taylor** is played by Sophie Turner  
> \- **The Duchess of Somerset** is played by Dame Emma Thompson
> 
> Also, here is [the playlist for this chapter](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2moBv0pSsNZct63Ndir9DT?si=sKaoYES4S5WY93k-XQFfcA). (Yes, we're really doing it like this.)
> 
> End of PSA, happy reading!

_**Preambulum** _

_i._

**_Somewhere in England, 2019_**

The large glass-walled conference hall is filled with tens of drably-dressed scholars mingling amid the various glittering patrons of academia, doing their best to snap up available funding for various research projects. The tasteful buzz of Prosecco and finger food accompanies the underlying murmur of general serious talk on the most recent breakthroughs in various branches of science and pseudo-science. Big words like _revolutionary_ and _unseen_ and _ground-breaking_ are thrown around almost too deliberately by the professors, parading their doctorates like prized pedigreed pets, looking for the best bidder or, in some cases, any bidder. It’s quite the ostentatious display, really.

*

 _They all care so much_ , thinks the young woman stood at the back of the room on her own, gaze fixed on the lights shimmering out the vast expanse of the window. Her strawberry blonde hair is pulled back from her face in a simple low chignon and her beautiful, sharp features are entirely discernible, even in the dim light of the posh soirée. She’s wearing a pink silk dress—flowy, breezy and, some would say, _inappropriately low-cut_ for the occasion. The eye-catching shade further distinguishes her from the other occupants in the room. She’s standing out, she thinks. Her divergence is abundantly clear to anyone looking, and they all are. Maybe she did it on purpose. Maybe she’s a hypocrite and, like the rest of them, she _does_ care, after all.

*

A few yards away, a man in a dark tuxedo is talking quietly with a beautiful older lady in a sparkling blue evening gown. Waterfall of diamonds on her cleavage, small, perfunctory smile on her lips, a tastefully manicured hand delicately wrapped around a whisky tumbler, the Duchess politely scoffs at the latest bad pun, then nods over to the blonde standing by the window. 

“Would you mind, Tarquin?”

“Not at all, Your Grace.”

*

“Dr. Taylor?” a familiar male voice says, twenty seconds later, breaking the blonde from her introspection. Dr. Taylor turns on her heels and finds herself face to face with Tarquin Hamilton, major faculty patron who, for some reason unbeknownst to her, seems to have fixated on her. 

“Mr. Hamilton,” she replies, reeling slightly in distaste as she automatically holds out a hand for him to press a kiss onto. The fact that she knows this much about his greeting habits makes her skin crawl. Those kisses are never pleasant, always intrusive and unsettling, and this latest is no different.

“Pardon my interruption, I wanted to introduce you to my companion,” he says, turning towards the statuesque woman on his arm. 

“Your Grace? May I present Dr. Skye Taylor, the brilliant young scientist I was telling you about,” he announces, with a theatrical gesture in Skye’s direction. He then addresses her directly, “Dr. Taylor, Her Grace the Duchess of Somerset, one of our major financial backers. Her Grace is very interested in your research on human genetic modification.” He disentangles his arm gently, observes as the two women graciously shake hands. “I shall take my leave, my ladies,” he then declares, “and let you two get acquainted. I have the feeling that this will be the beginning of a wonderful partnership.” He then kisses both women’s hands showily and sashays away, back into the racket of the cocktail party.

The Duchess takes a step forward and assesses Skye from head to toe with a discerning eye. 

“You scholars keep getting younger and ‘more accomplished’ with every passing year, don’t you? I have a hard time believing that _you_ are the one responsible for the amazing results I have been seeing over the past three years, my dear. It truly is quite remarkable.”

There is a defiant gleam in Dr. Taylor’s icy blue eyes as she sweeps her gaze up to meet the Duchess’s. 

“My work speaks for itself, as you well know, _Your Grace_. And if you wish to make ageist comments, I frankly have no want or need for your patronage.”

“Now, see here, girl.” The Duchess’ voice is like the crack of a whip and the haughty look on her face hardens for a split-second before visibly softening once again and smiling slightly. “I mean no disrespect, Doctor. I have the utmost admiration for your research, and of your person, too, of course. Your research in particular, however, is of very great interest to me.”

“Is it, now, ma’am?” Skye replies, boldly, as she takes a careful sip of warm and slightly flat champagne from the flute she’s been holding in her left hand for the past half an hour and hasn’t touched yet, doing her utmost to not show her distaste.

“Yes, it really is. I believe it ultimately could prove pivotal for the world at large, in fact. It is this, my dear, that I am so keen on investing in. I have a great deal of influence, you see, and I am determined to ensure that your work receives the funding and resources it deserves.”

Dr. Taylor turns a shrewd gaze on the Duchess. “I have received many offers for patronage, Your Grace. What makes yours different from any of them?” she says, gesturing discreetly towards the rest of the people in the busy conference room.

The Duchess fixes Skye with a hard, calculating stare, holding her gaze without faltering.

“To put it simply, my dear: I believe we can change the course the world is on for the better. Your work in genetics is revolutionary, true. But I believe that it can be pushed even further. With your help, we will be able to help humanity solve the major hardships that our reckless modern lifestyles have wrought on the planet—without any of that crass vulgarity of mass culling promoted by the late Mr. Valentine.”

Skye’s eyes glimmer with curiosity, and she can’t help a small half smile from creeping up on the left corner of her mouth.

“I’m open to hearing your proposal, Your Grace. Perhaps we should retire to a more private location, so you can fill me in on your grand plan for healing the world?” 

The Duchess inclines her head in assent. The two make their way over to a small seating area tucked away at the side of the room, heads already bent close in conversation.

“You are the key to a better world, my dear,” the Duchess affirms, at the end of her little exposé, further stressing her point. “And I will do whatever it takes to make sure your vision is realised.”

Skye grins at the Duchess. They clink their cocktail glasses together.

“To a better world, Your Grace.”

_ii._

**_An undisclosed location in the Scottish Lowlands, February 2020_**

_“...from Stockholm today. Breaking news from Edinburgh: the sudden death of Rebecca Fields, Cabinet Secretary for the Environment, following complications from an insect bite causing neurological degeneration has rocked the Scottish Parliament and has caused mass hysteria regarding pest control…”_

Andrew Moore listens with half an ear to the news report coming from the screen across from him as he flicks and scrolls through the day’s local newspaper on his tablet, taking in the various and sundry of local happenings in the community. While he reads, he absently toys with the remains of toast ends on his plate and nudges the empty mug of tea at his elbow, contemplating filling it up again. 

_“...increasing reports of similar bites popping across Northern Europe…”_

His eyes scan quickly across each page until he zeroes in on a news article buried on the fourth page. He furrows his brow, the action creating sharp lines on his handsome face, keen blue eyes concentrating on the sparse lines of text describing the mysterious disappearances of a number of corpses from various morgues and funeral homes in the council area. 

_“...multiple deaths…”_

_Now, that is bizarre,_ he thinks to himself. _Multiple bodies disappearing, with no apparent links? I wonder if this is an isolated event? Local joke, perhaps?_

_“...unknown cause…”_

Unsure if he is hoping to prove or disprove his hypothesis, he casts his net slightly farther afield and searches for similar results relating to mysterious disappearances of deceased persons, turning up the same unexpected pattern. He makes notes and carefully cross-references to ensure that he isn’t getting duplicate results, before expanding his search to larger and international news outlets in various languages. 

What he does discover is slightly unexpected, while he notes that the larger news outlets still seem to be largely in the dark, or large cities appear seemingly unaffected (he assumes that they are equally so, just that fewer alarms have been raised), he sees the same story repeating itself over and over, sprouting like weeds from small communities throughout Northern Europe and creeping steadily across the Scottish Highlands. 

"What the _actual_ fuck. How is it possible we haven't picked up on this one yet?" he asks, out loud, standing up abruptly from his chair to pace over to peer blankly at the kettle and the dirty pan soaking in the kitchen sink.

He runs a hand through his hair, pensive. He then closes his eyes and spins around on the spot a few times as he absorbs the new information, like he always does when he’s trying to make sense of something. He only stops when he feels a presence behind him.

He opens his eyes again to find his cat looking at him inquisitively and half-disapprovingly.

 _Fuck, now I’m even getting judged by my own damn cat._

“Yes, Martha. Yes, I know,” he says, exhaling loudly, as he bends over, reaching out a hand. The cat approaches and arches her back to lean into his touch and makes a soft, purring noise. “I’m slow, these days, eh? Suppose I'd better bring this up to Robert and see if he has heard anything, ‘aven’t I?” 

Martha meows approvingly. Andrew sighs.

*

_**Bath Street, Glasgow** _

It’s Glasgow, today, and not the godforsaken village of Portsoy where the Clansman distillery is. And thank God for that, Andrew thinks, because this means that, before stepping into MacGregor and MacDuff Kiltmakers for a full day of talking to his boss and putting the wheels in motion for a new, definitely dangerous and potentially fatal mission for himself and all his colleagues, he’s allowed to do the things that normal people do, for once. 

So, he drops by Costa for a mildly indulgent caramel cappuccino and a muffin— _to go, please, if you wouldn’t mind_ , then steps into a newsagent’s and buys a magazine and a pack of smokes— _definitely quitting after this one, swear to God_ , and puts on Marty Robbins as he strolls along Bath Street under the pouring rain. He loves a bit of old country and western. The weird feeling of missing a place and a time he’s never known.

When Andrew finally makes his way through the doors of MacGregor and MacDuff, it’s just gone 9AM and the shop is just open. Still quiet, no customers crawling around and asking questions about this or that type of tartan, kilt pins or brogues. Just the calm dullness of a Tuesday morning and the benevolent smile on the face of the big, scruffy man behind the counter.

“Morning, Bothwell,” Andrew greets him.

“Awrite, chief?”

“Splendid. Lovely weather. Got you this, by the way,” Andrew says, nonchalantly, reaching into the internal pocket of his coat and getting out the slightly creased rolled-up magazine, that he rests on the polished cherry counter. The periodical has a blonde woman on the cover, holding a pair of needles in her left hand and a giant sky blue scarf in the other. _Simply Knitting_. Bothwell’s favourite.

“Aw, thank ye, chief. Ye really didnae ‘ave to,” Bothwell says, lighting up as he picks up the magazine and stares at it briefly before putting it in one of the top drawers of the tall wooden chest behind him.

“Nonsense, Bothwell. Course I did.”

Andrew winks at Bothwell, who beams back at him, and circles the counter, moving towards the stockroom. Stops at the base of the stairs and asks, without turning round, “Robert in yet?”

“Aye. He’s waiting for ye.”

“Ta. Good day to you, Bothwell.”

“And tae you, chief.”

*

Twenty minutes later, Andrew’s done with his presentation, and Robert is looking at him in mild disbelief and genuine concern.

“And this has been going on how long, exactly?”

“Not sure,” Andrew replies. “Four, five weeks?”

“Hume, what the—”

“I _know_ , Robert. Believe me, I don’t know what happened,” Andrew says, apologetic. He stops himself with a minute shake of the head and rectifies his statement. “Well, actually, I do. The raid on the Sagittarius gang put way too many of ours out of commission. We’re still operating at half capacity.”

Robert considers the matter for what feels like half a heartbeat, then raises an eyebrow.

“Get Statesman on the phone, Hume. _Immediately_.”

“Certainly, sir.”

*

“How is it possible you’ve got _no agents_ in the UK? What with that fancy new distillery up here you lot’ve been banging on about morning and night,” Andrew exclaims, peering at the hologram of Statesman’s newest Ginger Ale, standing opposite him and Robert in the spacious stockroom, rolls of tartan peeking through her half-transparent body.

“Well,” she says, non-committal, “We do have _one_ agent in London, currently. As you are perfectly aware, Hume, might I add.”

“Don’ be ridiculous, lassie,” Robert spats, harshly. “We’re not talking about infiltrating a boxing ring or manning the entrance to the shop—this is _serious business_.” He then turns to face Champagne, who’s standing on Ginger’s right, looking half-troubled by the news, half entertained at the not-so-subtle slander that his Scottish counterpart is throwing at Agent Tequila. “People—nae, _bodies_ are disappearing, Champ. We need a competent hand. Someone less likely to stick out like a sore thumb.”

“Really sorry, Robert,” Champagne replies. He shrugs, unapologetically. Sticks his Cuban cigar back between his lips. “Nothin’ we can do.”

“Although,” Ginger says, a flicker of something that might be mischief in her eyes. “Who’d you say you wanted to assign this to, Hume?”

“I didn’t,” Andrew replies. He looks to Robert, who nods in his direction, _go ahead_. “I believe we wanted to put Wallace on the case. He’s been home a reasonably long spell, and he’s buzzing to get back in the field.”

Ginger gives him a sly smile. “In that case, honey, you better give Merlin a ring. He’s got just the man for you.”

*

“Yes, Merlin,” Andrew says, for what feels like the tenth time, “yes, I’m sure. All over Northern Europe, and it’s here, now, too.”

“ _Bodies_ disappearing?” interjects the man on Merlin’s left. 

“Aye, Harry,” replies Robert, gravely.

“Empty graves, Arthur. Signs of visible forced entry in the morgues with coolers left wide open. A few dead coroners, too,” Andrew asserts, adding brushstrokes to the very ugly picture he and Robert have been painting for the two Kingsman executives on the end of the line, bluish holograms pacing up and down between the miles of fabric around them.

“Good God, some criminals these days. Won’t even let the dead rest in peace. What are they planning—unleash an army of zombies?”

“Can’t be sure yet, Arthur,” Andrew replies. “We desperately need backup, though. We’ve got three agents in the field and four off the roster, who won’t be operational for at least another two months.”

Arthur smirks. “Never could do anything yourself, could you, Douglas, old chum?”

“Ye owe me one, Harry and ye know it. It’s time to pay up, you posh fucker,” Robert replies, contemptuous, fists clenched on both sides of his body.

Arthur nods courteously back. _Touché_. “Very well. Merlin, please make the necessary arrangements for one of our agents to go up to Scotland to assist. They will be at Clansman’s disposal for the duration of the mission. Not a second more.”

Andrew sags slightly in relief, tension bleeding from his shoulders. Merlin raises his eyes from the clipboard he’s been scribbling on, and quirks an eyebrow at him.

“What is it, then, Merlin?” Andrew asks, suddenly suspicious.

“You’re in luck, Hume. It just so happens that the one man we can spare is our _very best agent_.”

Andrew’s eyes flit to Arthur’s blue-ish image for a brief moment: the immediate flicker of concern in the man’s dark eyes is almost too obvious.

Merlin touches the side of his glasses and the picture of a young man, no older than thirty, sporting a sharp suit and an even sharper jawline, appears in the space between them.

“Agent Galahad. He helped take down Richmond Valentine six years ago, then Poppy Adams’s Golden Circle the year after...”

“Didn’t he also marry a royal?” Robert interrupts, scoffing. “Not exactly what ye’d call _low profile_ , now, is he?”

“Let me reassure you, Robert. That small blip has been taken care of. Back in the shadows, and entirely at your service,” Merlin reassures him, visibly ignoring Arthur’s insistent worried look.

Robert’s face softens. “Well, in that case—looks like ye’ve got yerself a deal, _old chum_ ,” he says to Arthur, mockingly. “He better be all you say he is.”

“Oh, believe me, Robert. He is. All that, and much more,” Arthur replies, business-like but oh so unmistakeably _fond_. “I can certainly vouch for that.”

Andrew nods at Merlin in assent, _pleasure doing business with you_ , then resumes looking at Galahad’s picture, floating in mid-air between them. A persistent feeling nagging at the back of his mind.

_Fuck. Wallace is going to have a field day with this one._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the end notes! We hope you enjoyed this first taste of a very long and winding tale, and we hope we didn't confuse you *too* much with all the new characters.
> 
> Feel free to drop us some comments/kudos if you had a good time, and we'll see you very soon.
> 
> Love,
> 
> M and C xx


	2. I. Ad Meliora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An assignment.  
> A training session.  
> A leap of faith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, lovely people! 
> 
> After a week of writing new stuff, plotting for overly complex future chapters, and constantly asking each other "is it Tuesday yet?", we are absolutely stoked to be back and bring you this all-Kingsman installment of our ~~little~~ story.
> 
> Not much to say this week, except that the first chunk in here is the bit that got it all started, and we may or may not be feeling a tad sentimental about it.
> 
> But enough about that, and onto some... admin? How exciting, eh?
> 
> As mentioned in the tags:  
> \- **Harry Hart** is our gorgeous new Arthur (it might as well be canon, honestly)  
> \- **Merlin** and **Roxy** are very much alive  
> \- We namedrop a couple of other agents, **Percival** and **Dagonet** , whom we haven't fancast. Feel free to throw suggestions our way, we are all ears. (C speaking: since reading my lovely co-author's Eggsy/Percival oneshot, which you can very conveniently find [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23983000), I've had my mind set on a certain someone for Percival. Turns out, bloody Matthew Vaughn cast him for the actual Kingsman prequel, so the jury's still out on that one, really.)
> 
> Also, as usual, here is **[the playlist for this chapter](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4XWnIzoUWnAxRyjl2M3gdR?si=IUtwpRXaR7iiS3m1uqvJlQ)**.
> 
> We really hope you'll enjoy this deep dive into the world of our favourite Savile Row tailors. Happy reading!

**_I. Ad Meliora_ **

**_Savile Row, London. Morning._ **

“A _joint mission_ , guv?” Eggsy exclaims, incredulous. “Are you sending me on a fuckin’ babysitting job, Merlin?”

“Nothing of the sort, Galahad. It’s merely for logistical reasons—Clansman are short on resources at present, and they want one of ours in the field to assist with one of their high profile missions.”

“ _Clansman_ ,” Tequila mutters, under his breath. “Sweet fancy Moses on buttered toast, I’ll never get used to _that_ being a real thang.”

Sometimes Eggsy finds himself looking at this utter chunk of beef, all neck and no brains, and wonders how and why on _earth_ Kingsman are keeping him on. Tequila could probably even fool the occasional passer-by, some days, what with the whole thing he’s got going on at the moment—bulletproof tailored suit and bowler hat and courteous nods (Southern charm is good for some things, it seems). Except no, of course he _bloody_ doesn’t, since he more often than not insists on opening his gob, spluttering something moderately to highly offensive in his distinctive drawl with the unintelligible _lingo_ that still manages to bring even Harry’s normally tolerant, affable demeanour to an abrupt halt, and prompt the stiff upper lip into play. To add insult to injury, Tequila also occasionally sticks a toothpick between his teeth during mission debriefs, of all times, which never fails to earn him disapproving looks from Merlin from over his clipboard. 

All in all—no matter how many times Ginger and Champagne make excuses for him— Tequila will always be the worst foreign exchange student _ever_. And, of course, it’s Eggsy’s arse he’s been permanently glued to.

Well, actually, in light of recent developments, _permanently_ might be the wrong adverb: this time it looks like Eggsy might get rid of the annoying sod once and for all. Or so Eggsy hopes, at least. 

On second thought, the idea of a new partner isn't _that_ bad. He’s almost weirdly excited by the prospect, in fact. Not that he’d ever tell Merlin that, God forbid.

“Again, Agent Tequila—this Clan is spelled with a C,” Merlin retorts, sharp and Scottish and a tad spiteful, too. He shoots a look at Eggsy, then. Not quite an eye roll—Merlin’s a professional, bordering on emotionless robot while on the job—but Eggsy’s had (far too much) bourbon with him that one time and likes to think he can read the man well enough to see through his hard gaze and read an unmistakeable, _Americans, I swear to God._

“So, who’s it to be then, eh, Merlin?” he asks, with renewed interest, but careful not to sound too eager. He leans over the table and rests his face on both hands, elbows perched up, most definitely wearing out the nice, thin wool of his new, very expensive suit. He can almost hear Harry’s voice in his ears, telling him to sit properly— _elbow patches on anything other than tweed are a crime against tradition, Eggsy, how many times_ —as he gives Merlin a cheeky half grin and a wink.

Merlin rolls his eyes, then taps the right side of his glasses once, and a face appears on the screen next to him. Eggsy’s suddenly very grateful for his ungentlemanly elbows, as they are the only thing keeping his jaw from dropping open, because what he sees in front of him threatens, for the briefest of seconds, to make him lose it completely.

The agent popping up on the screen is a man—a very _handsome_ , like, straight-out-of-a-modelling-magazine handsome man. The few lines around his eyes and his youthful look say he can’t be more than a few years older than Eggsy himself, and yet his hair and beard show the most delicate hint of that something-something that to Eggsy screams of an array of attributes, all from that lovely semantic field that Eggsy’s absolutely _not_ been completely fucking obsessed with since Harry Hart came waltzing into his life, five whole years ago—the one centred around age and experience and competence, that is.

Merlin fucking smirks back at him, and Eggsy just sits there and takes it, because that was bloody well played indeed, and Merlin hasn’t even said a single word about the man yet.

Fucking smug bastard.

Eggsy’s so glad he’s alive.

“Agent Wallace,” Merlin enunciates, more Scottish than ever. “Eight years in the field, and Clansman’s undisputed undercover specialist. He went dark for eighteen months: operated between Glasgow, Paris and Hamburg, virtually alone and unaided, and made his way back to HQ with not so much as a scratch on him, after having successfully brought down one of the biggest human trafficking rings in Northern Europe. He also has an usually high number of missions based out of the Middle East on his record, as well as a recent undercover operation here in London—which appears to have occured while we were clawing our way back from that mess with Poppy Adams.”

This is the time when Eggsy would normally scoff and shake his head, because he’s absolutely bloody positive that this man will by all means be another posh fucker; he can feel the certainty rushing through his veins right at this moment, in fact. Except, his brain offers, he wouldn’t _sound_ posh at all, would he? Nah, no polished Oxfordshire accent, no BBC English, not there, not out of those plush, perfect lips of his. He can read it in those icy blue eyes, too: it would be a sea of rolled R’s and single malt, singing and barely understandable.

Bet he talks like he fucks. Rough and filthy.

 _One hundred and one days_ , the nagging voice behind his left ear whispers petulantly. _You really need a shag._

 _But he’s the teacher’s pet_ , Eggsy tries to argue back—miserably losing a battle against his own touch-starved psyche. _Maybe he shags his boss too_ , he thinks, hypocritical and very much self-deprecating.

All he has to go about is a shot of this man’s extremely attractive mug and a flippin’ code name that sounds just as daft as all the other ones that Eggsy and his English and American spy mates have been calling each other for a while (although, to be fair, he is half tempted to tip his hat off to Clansman’s founder, because naming agents after Jacobite rebels actually is that kind of top-of-the-range cheesy shit he absolutely lives for)—and yet his mind is already running a thousand miles an hour, up and away.

 _Wallace_. William fuckin’ Wallace.

Eggsy just can’t stop looking at him.

Tennent’s on tap and haggis for brekkie.

Bet he wears a kilt on a Sunday. _Isn’t that a delicious thought._

“...Agent Galahad?” a sharp voice cuts through his daydream. Clearly Merlin has been speaking at him for a while, and he hasn’t been paying attention in the slightest. _Not good, Eggs—get your shit together_. “Head in the game, lad. No fantasising on the clock,” Merlin echoes the voice in Eggsy’s head, with a wicked grin. “Still have to give you your briefing, son, before you’re free to be away with the faeries. Thank you, Agent Tequila, for the update regarding the ongoing improvements at the new Statesman distillery, ye’re dismissed.” 

“You’re welcome, boss,” Tequila replies, smug. 

_Fuck_. Just how much did Eggsy miss while he was lost in thought? _Not good, mate. Not good at all._

Eggsy straightens in his seat and makes a concerted effort to focus on Merlin, as they watch Tequila lever himself out of his seat, make his way along the table lined with empty chairs, and finally disappear out of the wood paneled briefing room.

Merlin fixes Eggsy with a level, assessing gaze. 

“Shall we reconvene at a better time, Galahad? You appear to be a mite distracted, lad.”

“Sorry, Merlin. Swear down, we’re good to go.”

Merlin nods and continues with his brief. “Here is the information we have. Clansman has become aware of mysterious disappearances—”

“Another Valentine situation?” Eggsy interjects, alarmed.

Merlin shoots him a dirty look for the interruption, and continues with barely a pause. 

“Nae, lad. These disappearances are not of the living, but the dead. Bodies are going missing from morgues, and even from gravesites. Whoever is doing this seems to be working their way south, and not in a terribly effective fashion. Reports have been popping up from small communities all over Northern Europe for the past several weeks. Nothing notable on its own, but there seems to be a pattern and Clansman have asked for backup in the investigation. Someone extremely competent, who would blend in and cooperate well with their agents. Does that sound like someone we know?” he asks, raising a sardonic eyebrow. Eggsy is notoriously familiar with all the staff at Kingsman and is certainly known for being the most friendly agent, constantly asking after the staff and their families at every turn. 

Kingsman themselves are still woefully short-staffed in the resulting upheaval of the Golden Circle, and, other than Roxy and Eggsy, there are only two other active agents that survived the attack. They have finally gotten to a point of stability within the Agency, in the last year or so, where they could start to replenish their ranks with (frankly never-ending) agent trials. That being said, among the qualified, seasoned agents, Eggsy is definitely best suited for this mission—and they both know it. 

“Does Harry know…” Eggsy says, trailing off and blushing, because he knows he’s being far too obvious. “Nevermind. He’s Arthur, course he knows.” 

Merlin shoots him a slightly pitying glance but then straightens abruptly as he gets an alert to his glasses and starts tapping away madly on his clipboard. 

“Apologies, Galahad. There seems to have been a spot of trouble with Arthur’s transport from his MI-6 meeting. I’m going to have to go deal with this. All relevant mission details will be transmitted to you before you’re due to leave. Dismissed.”

Eggsy shoots Merlin a concerned glance before nodding and standing from his seat at the table and buttoning his jacket. 

“You’ll let me know if there is anything to worry about, won’t you Merlin?”

Merlin looks up from his tablet with the hint of a sad smile on his face. “Aye lad, if there is anything to worry about, you will know it.”

Eggsy nods and turns on his heel and makes his way out of the room, feeling jittery and on edge. _Best go see if Rox is around._

*

**_Berkeley Street, London. Later that day._ **

Sparring with Roxy always feels like the best idea, until you actually start. She’s positively ruthless at hand to hand, and absolutely not above taking a cheap shot if you leave it open to her. 

She also has absolutely no pity at all for the miserable situation Eggsy has found himself in—a problem of _his own making_ , as she never misses the chance to assure him, every time he whinges to her about it (which, admittedly, is _all the bloody time_ ). God bless that woman, really. She has the patience of a saint. She also must love him a whole lot, because he’s not sure _he_ would put up with himself if he didn’t have to.

He takes another punch to his right arm, feeling it momentarily go dead as the nerve is impacted. Fucking hell, he really needs to start paying attention, or this amicable practice fight will end up turning into an expeditive way for him to shuffle off this mortal coil.

“Oi, Rox!” he exclaims, reaching up to rub at the offending limb. 

“Start. Paying. Attention,” she snarls, grinning playfully. She continues to swipe at him, relentless and deadly, as he jumps out of the way. “Don’t expect me to go easy on you just because you’re a moronic idiot who’s in love with his boss and can’t be bothered to put up a proper defense while you moon away into outer space.”

He just stops for a heartbeat, then. Stands there and takes the figurative hit, because what else can he fucking do, really, eh? She’s right. She’s absolutely bloody right, and—

 _Seriously, get it the_ fuck _together, Eggsy._

He shakes it off and raises his guard again, kicking himself for letting his mind wander away yet again. What is going on, today?

They continue to jab, punch and dance around each other for the next hour or so, until they are both absolutely drenched in sweat and agree to pack it in for the day. 

“Want to grab a pint, later?” Eggsy asks. “Still ’aven’t heard anything from Merlin and could really use the extra distraction.” He certainly doesn’t want to admit it out loud, but his anxiety level has been increasing steadily with every passing hour since the briefing. There is a very good reason why Arthurs typically don’t take on missions, beyond the obvious risks to their intelligence, but Harry obviously still has to take meetings, from time to time, and apparently even that holds inherent dangers now. 

_He’s the head of an international intelligence agency and was an active agent for longer than you’ve been alive. He’s fine,_ he tries to console himself. 

_Everyone’s luck runs out some time,_ the devil on his shoulder taunts wickedly. 

Roxy, standing at his side, gives him a long-suffering yet commiserating glance. 

“Of course I will, you halfwit. Let’s get cleaned up and decide on where.” 

When they emerge from the changing rooms of the gym they have been frequenting in town and take their leave, slowly making their way back to the shop to drop their things before once again heading out for a drink—or _many_ drinks, in Eggsy’s case—Roxy suddenly stops him in the street with a hand gently brushing his arm. 

Eggsy doesn’t react immediately. He’s busy, see—checking his phone for any potential messages from Merlin, worrying about Harry, worrying about himself, worrying about bloody Agent Wallace and whether he’s going to be an arse like the rest of ‘em.

“Eggs, for fuck’s sake, look!” she says, urgently, smacking his forearm, not so gentle anymore.

And Eggsy does, he looks, across the street and over the small row of cars parked on the right side of Savile Row, and his stupid lovestruck heart does a somersault when he sees Harry emerging from one of Kingsman’s high-tech black cabs, Merlin in tow, and hurriedly making his way into the shop.

Roxy gives Eggsy a look he knows very well. It’s a look that says _well, go on, then, you giant fool_ , as well as many other colourful expletives he chooses to block out most of the time.

“I’ll be at The Windmill, Eggs. One hour, and then I’m gone. Just be warned: if, God forbid, you do come, and you’re late, I may have already picked someone up, and you might well have to drink alone.”

“Standard procedure, then,” Eggsy replies.

“Standard procedure,” she confirms, with a small smile. “Go on, then, what’re you waiting for? He’ll be expecting you,” she adds, sardonic, but with a hint of worry in her voice. 

“Maybe this time—” Eggsy starts, staring deep into Roxy’s eyes, reading pity and concern on his best friend’s face. He doesn’t finish his sentence. 

“I wish you wouldn’t keep doing this to yourself, Eggs,” she says, leaning closer to kiss his cheek as she takes her leave, gym bag dangling from one side of her body and hips swaying lightly.

Eggsy speed-walks towards the shop, climbs the four stone steps in one stride, and lets himself in with his own key. As soon as the door’s unlocked, he all but storms through the entrance like the wind, dropping his gym bag next to the entrance with a loud thud. He’s dramatic as all fuck, but then it’s the evening, and no-one’s really around to witness it—the result of a whole day of being on tenterhooks about Harry potentially resuming that old _being dead_ business that wasn’t fun in the slightest the first time round, back when Eggsy wasn’t yet in lo—

Nah, he’s not allowed to say the word. Not ever. Not if. Not until…

“Galahad, what the _hell_ are you doing back here?” Merlin’s voice snaps him out of his reverie for the umpteenth time that day. Eggsy turns on his heels and sees Merlin emerging from Fitting Room Three. “Shouldn’t ye be home, packing for Scotland?”

“It’s quite alright, Merlin,” Harry says, from inside the room. “Galahad, a word?”

Eggsy can’t help but beam, and that earns him a half pitying, half reproachful look from Merlin. 

_Careful_ , Merlin mouths. _He’s in a foul mood_.

Eggsy nods in understanding, the knot in his throat unravelling a tad but tension sparking everywhere else in his body.

He crosses the threshold to Fitting Room Three and is immediately greeted by the sight of Harry Hart’s imposing figure, with his back to the door, facing a wall of Kingsman gadgets. His attention fixed, it seems, on the golden hand grenade lighter he’s twisting absentmindedly between his fingers. While it is clear he knows that Eggsy has entered the room, he doesn’t turn around, at first.

“The door, Eggsy, if you wouldn’t mind.”

 _Eggsy._ Harry hasn’t called him by his preferred name since—

He obediently pulls the heavy door closed behind himself, listening to the soft thud it makes and the subsequent perfect stillness that suffuses the room. Harry immediately spins around and begins to slowly make his way towards Eggsy. He looks tired, but otherwise unharmed. Eggsy sighs in relief at that. Just a bit too loudly, perhaps.

Harry doesn’t stop playing with the lighter as he fixes Eggsy with a hard gaze. “The lock, Eggsy.”

Eggsy inhales sharply, watching Harry’s confident stride, closing in on him like a panther. Hypnotising. Fuck. _Fuck_.

“ _Yes_ , Harry,” he breathes, back fully against the sturdy oak wood, one hand reaching behind his back to bolt it, trapping them inside, just as Harry finally steps close enough to box him in, effortlessly filling all his senses. Finally, he discards the lighter on one of the shelves next to the door, and focuses completely on Eggsy for the first time in weeks.

A small, adoring smile appears on Harry’s face as he rests his right hand on Eggsy’s shoulder and caresses Eggsy’s jawline with the back of his left.

Eggsy doesn’t flinch, at that, of course. He doesn’t close his eyes, either. He doesn’t lean into Harry’s touch. He definitely doesn’t shift his weight forward, anticipating the potential need to get on his tiptoes. He’s absolutely not thinking of Harry stealing his lips and mouth and breath away.

“I’ve missed you, darling boy,” Harry whispers. “I’ve missed this,” he adds, running the soft pad of his thumb over Eggsy’s lower lip. 

They’re standing so close, now. Eggsy can smell that cologne on him, the one they bought together that one time they went out shopping on Old Bond Street and got lost in all those little fancy boutiques in the environs—Savile Row always a spitting distance away, you never know—but it was good, so good, and Harry has smelled like that ever since, vetiver and sandalwood and sex, and Eggsy is just…

“Rough day, Harry?” he asks, slightly dizzy, lips mere millimetres from Harry’s.

“Very,” Harry replies, his face moving slightly to the right to place a delicate kiss on the corner of Eggsy’s mouth that makes Eggsy shiver—full-body, shameless, desperate, _God, keep it together, not like it’s the first time, is it?_ “What a fortunate coincidence that you showed up. Always so good for me, aren’t you, Eggsy?” he coos, swiftly shifting to the other side of Eggsy’s face, kissing the opposite corner of his mouth.

Eggsy shouldn’t. He shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, he _shouldn’t_. And yet.

He grabs a hold of Harry’s fine suit jacket by the lapels and pulls him in, kissing him fiercely—and Harry kisses him back, pressing him further into the door and rather unceremoniously pushing Eggsy’s legs open with one of his, the insistent press of his steely quad shredding what remains of Eggsy’s already weakened defenses. Harry then closes his hands around both of Eggsy’s wrists, yanking them away from himself and pressing them against the hardwood he’s pinning Eggsy to, trapping him even further, sending electrical shocks careening across Eggsy’s body.

“W-whatever you need, Harry,” Eggsy says urgently, already out of breath, as if he’d run a whole 5K in a minute. He bites his lip, fixes his gaze on Harry’s. Deep brown eyes, fond, hungry. “I can…” he starts, but somehow can’t bear to say it out loud. His eyes just flicker down Harry’s body, an instant that feels like an hour, looking at and _feeling_ Harry’s obvious arousal.

Harry smiles and kisses Eggsy again, this time letting go of his wrists, and Eggsy can finally do what he wants, snake both hands underneath Harry’s jacket and up to his shoulders, making a quick work of it, letting it fall to the floor—God, what a sacrilege—but neither seems to give a toss, because Eggsy then moves back upward, fingertips skimming Harry’s long, beautiful neck, then tangles them into Harry’s hair, messing it up, fuck, but he’s so gorgeous like that, looking at Eggsy through lust-filled eyes, fuck, _fuck_. 

Harry bends down and starts to kiss his neck, tearing small whines out of Eggsy as he sucks and bites on the skin there a tad too enthusiastically, _perfect_ , impossibly so. Like that, through waves of arousal, Eggsy finds he’s thinking the same thing that occupies him at every minute of every day when he’s not working: he just wants Harry all to himself. He wants Harry to be his like he already is Harry’s, wants to say it, wants to tell him, _I’m yours_ —

Someone knocks on the door, shattering the moment completely.

Eggsy looks down at Harry, already unmistakeably debauched, frozen to the spot with his jaw slack and his hand halfway up Eggsy’s T-shirt. Eggsy doesn’t know how he manages to stifle a frustrated groan. 

“Anyone in there? Arthur?” a familiar voice calls out from the other side of the door.

“Yes, I’m in here,” Harry replies, composed and business-like, the motherfucker, _how_ does he even do it. “What is it, Dagonet?”

“Terribly sorry to disturb you, sir. Merlin just called something in. Percival and I happened to be nearby and picked it up. We just need some supplies, and we’ll be off.”

“Very well, Dagonet. Just give me a moment, please, will you?” Harry says, regretfully stepping back and bending to retrieve his jacket from the carpet. He runs a hand through his hair in an attempt to smooth it back to a semi-normal state.

Eggsy moves away from the door immediately after, zipping up his hoodie to try and hide the small mess Harry has made of his neck, then carefully adjusts himself through his jeans, way too tight for a situation like this—fuck, whatever happened to all that baggy stuff he used to wear, eh?

He then steps even further away from Harry, making his way to the far right corner of the room, deliberately avoiding Harry’s gaze and feigning a rather impressive amount of interest for one of the new Kingsman pens, as Harry unlocks the door and opens it.

“Gentlemen.”

“Arthur,” Percival and Dagonet say in unison. Then Percival adds, “Galahad, hadn’t realised—” 

Eggsy turns around and interrupts him, “Evening, Percy. Dagonet. Need some toys?” he asks, with a smirk, slipping back into character, safe, concealed underneath his Galahad persona. He showily brandishes the pen he’s been playing with in front of him, showing the two agents. “Gotta get yourselves one of these, they’re ace.”

Dagonet winks at him. 

“We won’t be a minute, sir,” Percival assures Harry, with a courteous nod.

“By all means, gentlemen, take your time. Galahad and I have everything we need—we were just about to take our leave, in fact. Weren’t we, Galahad?”

Eggsy’s heart sinks, as he carefully replaces the pen he had been toying with. “Yes, all done ‘ere,” he confirms, moving back towards Harry and the door as Percival and Dagonet walk inside the fitting room. “Go crazy, fellas. Don’t get killed, out there.”

“We’ll try our best,” Dagonet replies, heading for the pens and lighters display at the back of the room.

“You really should try the new pens, gentlemen. Incredibly precise laser cutter add-on—life-changing,” Harry says, smooth and conversational. “Good luck, agents.”

“Ta, sir. Have a good night.”

Eggsy follows Harry out of the room and back into the shop. He notes fleetingly that he’s slouching as he walks, and how pathetic that is—head low like a reprimanded puppy dog and the bitter taste of dissatisfaction in his mouth. When Harry doesn’t turn right towards the exit but left and up the stairs towards the offices, however, Eggsy finds himself straightening right back up. Maybe they’re not done, after all. Maybe he can still turn it around. Maybe Harry still wants—

They get to the top of the stairs and Harry moves quickly, taking long strides towards the last door at the end of the corridor. He opens it, and gestures for Eggsy to precede him.

Something possesses Eggsy, then: possibly the result of weeks of buzzing around each other and never even brushing fingers while crossing each other in corridors, possibly the fact that Eggsy’s going to leave in two days and who the fuck knows when he’ll get another chance to do this, possibly the fact that, fucking hell, it’s _Harry_ who’s started it for once. He’s not really sure. The result, anyways, is that Eggsy gets into the office, watches Harry close the door, and he makes his move—he pulls Harry in for another kiss, walking backwards with his eyes closed and Harry’s hands rested just above the curve of his arse like he’s afraid to dip lower, until the back of his legs hit the desk.

He loses himself in it once again, the kiss, the smell of Harry’s skin, the noises Harry makes as he imperceptibly moves closer, grinds into him just a tad, knows what Eggsy likes and how he wants it, and it’s good, so good, for a while, until it’s not anymore. Until Harry lets out a loud groan and pulls back once again, just as ruffled as he was before, except he’s looking sad and _guilty_ this time, too, and what the fuck’s even going on, eh? 

“Eggsy, we can’t,” Harry huffs, loosening his tie and opening up the first button at his collar. “We can’t keep doing this.”

“What the fuck, Harry?” Eggsy spats, angry and hurt. “What’s the matter now?”

“The matter, my darling boy, is that I am behaving like a complete arse. Just jumping on you like that, earlier. It wasn’t right.”

“Oh, Harry, c’mon, now,” Eggsy says, softening a tad, pitifully hoping, hoping still. “You know that’s the arrangement. You scratch my back…”

“But it’s not, Eggsy, is it? You’re young and full of love to give, and you deserve better than whatever _this_ is,” Harry says, gesturing between them while taking another step back. “You deserve someone else—someone who can give you what you need.”

Eggsy promptly starts fuming again, and his eyes fill with tears. He can’t believe his ears. Can’t believe he actually has to spell it out for Harry.

“Fucking hell, man. I know what I want, what I need— _who_ I need. And that is you, Harry. I don’t know what else I can do to make you believe it: I don’t _want_ anyone else. Just you.” Ah, great. Now the corners of his eyes are prickling.

“I…” Harry starts, looking more vulnerable than Eggsy’s ever seen him. Even when Eggsy was pointing that gun at him to make him regain his memory, Harry didn’t look like he looks now. “Eggsy, you don’t know what you’re saying. I can’t be _it_ for you. I could never make you as happy as you deserve to be.”

“But you already _do_ , Harry,” Eggsy says, strangled, feeling the first tear escape his eyes and trickle down his face. “You do make me happy. Fuck, Harry—I’m already yours. We could be something. If you’d just have me,” he begs, all defenses down, heart on his sleeve, because what the fuck. At this point, Eggsy hasn’t really got much more to lose. This is already a monumental fuck-up as it is.

“I’m your damn _boss_ , Eggsy. And it can’t be said that either of us could even begin to consider a career change, now, can it?”

 _Speak for yourself, you old fool_ , is the first thing that comes to mind. _You’re right, damn you. Why are you always right?_ , is what Eggsy thinks immediately after.

“I’m sorry, Eggsy, I really am. Sorry this can’t be what you want it to be. Sorry for being an absolute cock and taking advantage of our little arrangement for my own selfish needs. I can’t keep doing this to you. It’s better this way.”

It all feels very… _final_. It hurts to even look at Harry, right now—and that just feels so wrong, so terribly backwards, when Eggsy’s used to lighting up every time he sees the man. 

He can’t be in the office anymore. Can’t be in Harry’s presence, have Harry look at him like he’s a wounded bird, breaking his heart and then pitying him this way, he hates it, can’t wait for it to be over, so he forces himself away from the desk and rushes out, pushing past Harry, past his stupid workplace ethics, past everything he’s leaving behind, hopefully for good. 

He’s downstairs and out of the shop in no time. The walk to The Windmill is not quite a walk as much as it is a run, lungs filling with the bitingly cold air of a late February night and tears still splashing down, just to freeze on his cheeks. Pathetic, really—but at least it’s the last time. Or, at least, that’s what he tells Roxy when she comes back to their table holding a pint of Magners in each hand and looking sympathetic but also very much relieved.

And maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s true. Maybe this _is_ for the best. Plus, Eggsy’s about to embark on a mission that sounds like it’s going to be a heck of a lot more exciting than the usual humdrum he gets to deal with while in London. The first real mission since taking down Poppy and rescuing Sir Elton, and he really fucking can’t wait for it. Plus, he supposes, it doesn’t hurt that his partner on this one is, as Roxy puts it, _quite a dish_. 

All in all: what could possibly go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...right. Sorry not sorry about the Harry situation. We promise we'll ~~eventually~~ make it all _so_ much better for our favourite disaster boy spy. Cross our hearts.
> 
> See you back here next week for the beginning of our Scottish journey: we cannae bloody wait to have you with us for that one.
> 
> Lots of love,
> 
> M and C xx


	3. II. Dulce Periculum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rather loud car.  
> A rather foolish idea.  
> A rather unusual introduction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello again folks!
> 
> It's Tuesday once more, and today we're bringing you up North with us: Eggsy is going to Scotland, and he's got mischief on his mind.
> 
> Not much admin for youse this time round, apart from the obligatory link to **[the playlist for this chapter](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0zZBCwUiKaOps7Fd2uXuPq?si=7uYNwGzGS4CLZxk7Tce8Pg)** , and our most sincere wishes that you'll enjoy this wee dram of the insanely interesting and extremely temperamental Scotch that is our very own Agent Wallace—we know we _definitely_ have.
> 
> See you on the other side.

_**II. Dulce Periculum** _

**_Aviemore, Inverness-shire. Beginning of March. Heavy snow._ **

_What kind of poxy hellish backwater is this place?_ Eggsy thinks to himself as he trudges through the snow from the train platform to the railway station in Aviemore, stepping around the building in search for the (supposedly) pre-arranged vehicle that he hired. Although he had a berth on the train and was able to get some sleep on the way, he is not terribly keen to jump straight back into another journey after travelling all night from London. It is imperative for his plan that he does so, though, so he just clutches his third cup of coffee of the day—a record even for him, since it’s barely 8AM—and just goes on with it.

He scans the minuscule, almost empty car park and quickly realises he might have made a mistake. It’s not exactly difficult to spot his car, since the thing just happens to be bright green. _Bright green, seriously?_ Bugger. He _really_ should have checked to see what colour the hire was.

He huffs dramatically, giving the Suzuki Jimny the side-eye, as if he could magically turn the shocking paint job into a classy, potentially matte grey. When he realises that Kingsman technology has unfortunately not gotten quite that good yet, he shakes his head and makes his way toward the car, while fishing the keys from the envelope he’s procured at the desk in the station. 

He continues the scant few steps separating him from the doors to the station and his vehicle, mentally bemoaning the state of his freshly polished Oxfords, pressing the button on the fob to unlock the doors and throw his case in the back, before folding himself into the driver’s seat and starting the ignition. 

If he were smarter, he would have taken Merlin’s advice and pre-arranged instructions to make contact with Clansman in Glasgow. He seems to recall there was supposed to be a whole song and dance about a kiltmakers shop, flashing his signet ring in a certain way, and a secret passphrase, some bollocks about it being “a good day for a stroll around Kelvingrove Park with his Shetland Collie”—you know, _like the stereotypical spies they are_. 

Except, of course, if Eggsy’s brief history at Kingsman has proven anything, it’s definitely not that he’s smart. Cheeky? Yup. Reckless? Absolutely. A little shit? Sure, why not. A hot piece of ass? Most definitely. (Even Elton John told him that, when they were flying back from Cambodia, finally out of Poppyland. “If only I was ten years younger, darling.”) But _smart_? Nah, leave that for Merlin and his IT minions.

Eggsy’s got a plan, see, and it involves seeing for himself who he is to be working with—what _calibre_ _of organization_ he is to be working with. 

He deliberately engages the 4X4 on the small Suzuki and carefully maneuvers the eye-smartingly bright vehicle out of its spot. After approximately ten minutes of mulling the question over, he comes to a conclusion: he actually _loves_ that the car is bright green. Sure, it might not be the covert grey Land Rover Defender he had been hoping for—basically camouflage up here in the Highlands, and overall much more fitting for the undercover operation he is planning—but fuck it, he’s still a laddy lad at heart, and _boy_ does he enjoy a flashy car.

He navigates the narrow mountain roads with ease, thankful for the—slightly—modern amenities available to him in the vehicle: the ability to plug in his phone and listen to music makes the sixty-odd mile drive that much more tolerable. 

_But seriously though, this feels like the arse-end of nowhere._ And he’s already passed the signs for about a hundred other distilleries; he’s even driven past the new Statesman branch, for fuck’s sake _._ Who the fuck knew there were this many Scotch producers in what amounts to a space roughly the size of south London? These Highlanders are absolutely bonkers.

He’s about to forfeit, stop at the nearest pub, order himself a nice hot meal and get back to the original plan—the damned kiltmakers in Glasgow and Merlin’s daft choreography he so hates—when he finally, _finally_ , catches sight of the North Sea through the window, and almost punches the air in triumph: he knows that’s the sign he must be getting close to the Glenglassaugh Distillery, Clansman’s remote headquarters, that Merlin’s files flag as _impenetrable_. _We’ll definitely see about that, I reckon._

Now, he just has to find somewhere to ditch the eye-sore and make his way onto the property undetected. He reasons that he can probably just drop it in their car-park and make it seem like it belongs to someone touring the facility. _Well, it kinda isn’t far from the truth_ , he thinks to himself wryly. _Just not the type of tour they would ever sell tickets for._

When he pulls into the car park at Glenglassaugh, the snow from the mountains has given way to a steady drizzling rain—which is typical for Scotland in general, he’s told. As annoying as the prospect of getting wet is, the rain does come in handy: he’s justified to get his umbrella out, which makes for a perfect shield against the nosy eyes of the surveillance cameras as he makes his way toward the entrance. 

He makes a beeline for the busy visitors centre at first, but at the last minute he changes course, stealing away around the outside of one of the long storage buildings, and props himself up against a wall. There, he efficiently stows the umbrella and slings it across his back to leave his hands unencumbered, all the while busy trying to formulate a proper plan of action and figure out how exactly he can get inside undetected. 

Therein lies his biggest issue with all this, which Merlin would (quite correctly) label as “fucking about trying to be clever instead of just following orders”: while Eggsy has (obviously) made rough arrangements for this “operation”, he has been unable to get his hands on any reliable data about the distillery. He did try, the other day, to hack into Merlin’s system to steal potentially useful stuff, such as blueprints, details about the geological composition of the terrain around the distillery, anything that could help, really—but despite his best efforts he was laughably unsuccessful. As a result, all of his (at best) loosely formed ideas are based largely around dodgy satellite imagery and publicly available information—touristy photographs from their website and the like. Admittedly, not _exactly_ what anyone’d call “intel”. Therefore, it appears he will be formulating the majority of his infiltration on the fly, which in truth is how he likes to run his ops, much to the distress of his handlers. 

Now that he’s here and about to dive in headfirst, quite literally, he assesses the buildings around him. Presumably, a large portion of the distillery is used for its actual intended purpose, and as such would be really not all that useful to break into—or, at least, not for his purposes. However, it is also likely that any operation as large as Clansman would also have quarters and training facilities that would have a steady stream of personnel coming and going. Additionally, it would be temperature controlled. So, his safest bet is to find a building with the best makeup of heat signatures, or the one conspicuously absent of them, because if they are a spy agency worth their salt, they would know to shield themselves against prying eyes. 

Eggsy reaches up to tap at the side of his glasses. He scrolls through a number of settings before he finds the one he needs—the infrared sensors. _Perfect_. He turns to face the wall and carefully reaches up to grab hold of protruding masonry and wedge the toes of his now very scuffed and soggy shoes into the stones of the wall ( _sorry, Harry_ ), then hauls himself up the side of the building and over the ledge to land on to the wet and slippery slate tiled roof. 

_Definitely not one of my best plans, to get up onto a roof in the rain_ , he thinks to himself, carefully crouching down to keep himself out of view and his centre of gravity low. _Now, where to_ —

He spots a skylight, only a few yards from where he’s perched, and smiles triumphantly. _Bingo._ He slowly makes his way over to it, careful to keep a steady footing—dress shoes, as upgraded with tech as Kingsman can make them, really aren’t made for walking on wet roof tiles—thinking he should still be able to get a good view of the surrounding buildings from inside. And it would get him out of the rain, too: a double-win scenario in his books. 

When he gets to his coveted destination, he crouches down to peer through the angled window. He scans the room below using his glasses, looking left and right, up and down, trying to cover every possible surface his eyes can reach. When he’s sure he’s not picking up on any heat signatures, he jimmies the window, then turns the outer edge of his watch to set it in grappling hook mode. This will be the first time he uses it, and he sure hopes Merlin’s usual confidence around the effectiveness of his gadgets is justified, as the tiny metal hook and scant wire coming out of his watch seem, at first glance, completely incapable of bearing his weight. 

Regardless of any niggling doubts, he clasps the hook on the iron underside of a roof tile and tugs on the wire to jam it in place—because, when it comes down to it, his confidence in Merlin really is blind. So, he takes a deep breath and jumps from the edge—and it _works_ , of course it bloody does. Like that, he’s slowly but surely lowering himself through the open space, easy breezy, as if nothing sneaky was really afoot. Except it is, of course. _Sneaky_ is Eggsy’s middle name, after all.

Just as he’s thinking how bloody conspicuous he’d look if someone stepped in right at this moment, seeing him drop in like some kind of comic book baddie attempting to steal the Crown Jewels, he hears an almost imperceptible sound from behind him. Before he can spin around to check on the potential threat, there is a sharp crack against the back of his skull and the world goes black.

*

**_Unknown location. An indefinite amount of time later._ **

When Eggsy opens his eyes, it’s like he hasn’t opened them at all: instead of light and shapes, there is only inky darkness. As he shakes off dizziness and disorientation, he fleetingly wonders whether he’s in the same room he was busted in or if he’s been moved. His head is heavy with a hungover kind of sleepiness, unpleasant and suffocating, and he feels like he could sleep a few eons more, really. 

Since he can see fuck all, he takes the opportunity to quickly take stock of what he does know and what he can perceive with his limited senses. “Meditation” is a word that used to be foreign to him until about six months ago, but then Roxy started dragging him to all those classes and he got hooked. Even downloaded an app on his phone to do it every day. Keeps him grounded, keeps him focused. He obviously is in a bit of a pickle, right now. He needs all the mental clarity he can get.

After getting in the zone, Eggsy uses his first moments of clear-headed thought to take mental inventory of his injuries. _Something_ hurts, that’s pretty clear. 

The back of his head. A pulsating pain across the base of his skull, neat and linear. Like when you accidentally leave a cupboard door open, you forget about it as you bend over, and you get surprised and curse at your own daftness when you get back to an upright position and inevitably knock your head into hard wood. His brain is a little muddled and slow too—likely as a result of that same hit.

His left cheek. Different pain. _Stinging_. Tiny needles prickling his cheekbone. All his weight is on it, too. He needs to move, needs to prop himself up on his hand and—

His wrists behind his back. Carefully bound using what feels like thin but extremely tough tactical rope. Eggsy bites the inside of his cheek as he feels it with his fingers, wriggles his wrists around as best he can and runs his fingertips over the smooth, meticulous twists and turns of the knot. It’s tight. _So_ tight. And, well. So _beautifully_ done, too. 

He’s been in situations like this before. Except that, usually, he’s consenting, considerably less clothed, and his mouth is generally full of—

He gives himself a good mental shake. He shouldn’t be thinking about that. Not now, not ever. _What is going on with his brain?_ Those are the memories that he should close in a drawer and throw away the key. They seem so far away, too, those moments. All that learning. All that figuring stuff out. All that he was taught. All that H—

Won’t even bring himself to spell the name inside his mind: he can’t afford the distraction to his already taxed thought processes.

But where was he? Ah, pain. Right! Pain! _Come on, Eggsy, focus._ There’s actual _physical_ pain, and a potentially life-threatening situation. Back to it, then, and—for the love of God, please, that can’t _possibly_ be a semi, now, can it? Fuck. _Really not the time. No, no, no, fuck off._

He writhes a little, senses alight and nerve endings tingling, and he makes a small noise, halfway between discomfort and frustration, because his body is very, very confused. He’s by now realised the thing that is blocking his view and immersing him in pitch black is a silk blindfold. And this is a small mindfuck of its own, really, because what fucking jailer uses a fucking _silk blindfold_ , for fuck’s sake—and why would they use it on _him_ , too: do they not know they’re not helping in the slightest?

He makes another small, choked noise, and he winces again: pain? weird, inappropriate arousal? Jury’s still out. What he is sure of, however, is that the left side of his body is _screaming_ for mercy, and that he really should try to get to a sitting position.

To his right, something shifts. _Someone_ , the ear that is not pressed against what feels like cold ceramic tiles suggests: footsteps and rustling of fabric. Nothing like the soft wool of those suit trousers he always wears, those that are worth several grand to the general public and that sometimes he has to pretend he sells for a living. No, this is something... _rough_ , is the first word that comes to mind. Scratchy, like—

_Tweed._

All of a sudden, the tweed is looming over him. His nostrils pick up tobacco and some kind of cologne—something foreign, woodsy, alluring, _primal_. On further consideration, maybe not cologne. Maybe it’s just what this man smells like. And if it is, well, Eggsy may or may not want that smell all over himself, his clothes and his bedsheets, if at all possible. 

Like that, once again, his imagination is racing. And like that, once again, he wants to kick himself in the head and would kill for several icy cold showers.

“Good morning, princess,” a smooth, accented voice says, very close to his ear. The R is rolled and the I in “princess” is not an I at all, more like a very open E—and yeah, he’s in Scotland, alright, but this is next level, this is… “Trust ye’re comfortable, like this?”

“Mmh, not _really_ , no,” his loose tongue and signature cheek kick back in, helping his malfunctioning, sexually frustrated, and slightly scrambled brain out when it most needs it. 

“Pity,” the voice says, in a tone that lets absolutely no compassion transpire. More like derision. _Contempt_. Maybe this is the same man who beat him up and puts his talented hands to use on the absolutely flawless knot that is currently cutting into his wrists as he’s desperately trying to undo it.

Rough fingers force their way into Eggsy’s shirt collar, then, and he gets yanked to a more or less vertical position. Still very much on the floor, though, because his jailer is in a similar mood to Eggsy, it seems. Eggsy is now effectively on his knees, bound and blindfolded, and he absolutely _hates_ how much this all turns him on.

“Has anyone ever told ye you look good on yer knees, posh boy?”

 _Posh boy?_ Eggsy almost has to stifle a giggle. Definitely not a term most people would use to describe him, before Kingsman mocked him up to be a gentleman, at any rate. Now, _slut_ on the other hand… he gives himself another mental shake to refocus. Maybe he should see if he can play up the misconception.

“I am indeed privy to that particular detail, yes,” Eggsy replies, poisonous but secretly playful, putting on his best impression of Agent Kay. Agent Kay was born in North London, groomed at Eton, got a double first in Rich-Prick-Who-Will-Not-Work-A-Day-In-His-Life Studies at Cambridge, and integrated Kingsman after running into one of Merlin’s close friends in the Medieval Literature section of the British Library. Surprisingly effective at preventing museum heists and instantly translating old German books to interpret clues (weird mission, that one was), but not good for much else. A right bellend all in all, and a very easy impression to do—always cracks Roxy right up.

“Also, and I’m terribly sorry to be forward and all, but—who the _fuck_ are you, please?” he adds, in the same exaggeratedly posh tone, quirking an eyebrow that his jailer probably won’t see and curling the left side of his face up in a side smile. A jolt of pain rips through his cheekbone as he does so. He discreetly bites his lower lip and continues playing with the rope around his wrists. He thinks he understands how it’s knotted, now, and he just needs to—

“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” the man replies, suave and dangerous. “Visitors usually get in through the front door, _ooh_ and _aah_ at our machinery, have one or two wee drams, spend a small fortune in our gift shop and fuck off back where they came from. We like that kind of visitor. _Your_ kind, however—not so much.”

“And what kind would I be?”

“The kind that snoops around thinking the cameras won’t catch him, ruins a perfectly good pair of shoes climbing a centuries old wall, finds a sunroof, and lowers himself in on a wire like Lara _feckin’_ Croft,” the man replies. He sounds spiteful but, if Eggsy’s not hearing things, also maybe just a tad impressed. Eggsy smiles, taking in the veiled praise. “The kind we generally shoot on sight,” the man continues, “and that we watch limply crumble off the side of the building. _That_ kind.”

Eggsy is, once again, confused. This man’s obviously threatening him, but somehow making the idea of being targeted by blood-thirsty snipers sound, what— _appealing_? That blow to the head must have fucked him up more than he realises.

“Get many of those around ‘ere, do ya?” he replies, accidentally dropping the posh act but still as cheeky as he can muster, trying to hide his suddenly hard breathing and trying to keep his shoulders as still as possible, as to not alert the man to his surreptitious attempts at getting the bit of rope he’s managed to loosen to further cooperate.

“Ye have _no idea_ ,” the man replies, a palpable smile in his voice. “Actually, you know what? It isn’t too late for that, I reckon.” His tone changes, immediately after. Not smooth, not soothing like it was just now. _Murderous._ “I’m quite inclined to put you back up there. Just to watch you run, get hailed on, run some more, slip and fall down, break a couple of bones like that and _then_ be shot full of holes. Would ye like that, posh boy?”

Against his best instinct, Eggsy nods. There’s just something about how this man’s voice is titillating him, he supposes. Eggsy really does hate himself, sometimes.

Suddenly, Eggsy hears his captor come up behind him and feels his arm wrap around to hold a small knife to Eggsy’s throat. 

Well, _shit._ There goes any hope of forcing his arousal under wraps.

"If you don't tell me who the fuck you are and who the _fuck_ sent you, I swear I'm gunnae paint this wall with your blood," the man continues, jabbing the blunt edge of the knife further into Eggsy’s exposed neck.

Eggsy lets out a measured breath, although the air judders in his chest on the way back in. _This is so not good_. Equally, he realises he can’t let the man get the upper hand any more than he already has, so he works hard to keep his breathing and heart rate steady, as he tries to work out various contingency plans. _If only the fucking rope would do what I want it to do, fucking fuckity fuck._

Maybe he should have told someone— _anyone_ really—that he was haring off on his own. On the other hand, he reasons, at least as far as Kingsman’s concerned, there is a silver lining to all this: even if this supremely dumb and wildly unnecessary infiltration operation goes sour, there is one thing Eggsy’s _really_ good at: keeping his mouth shut. 

"Knock yourself out, guv,” he spits, squirming within the man’s firm grasp and feeling the hardness of a toned chest against his shoulder blades. “I ain't tellin’ you shit."

“I’d been warned about you,” the man says. “That you were a bit of a wee shite.”

“Oh really? And who’s been telling you such horrible things about me, hmm?” 

The man presses the blade harder against his throat, and Eggsy goes very still. This is really _not_ how he wants to kick the bucket. He’s fine dying with a hard-on, but at least he’d like to go when there’s actually a chance of him getting off before.

“Now, wouldn’t ye like to know that, wee lamb?” the man taunts. “Like you, my sources are my own. Or maybe now you’re ready to tell me what ye’re doin’ here, and who sent ye?”

He pauses less than a moment, not even waiting for Eggsy to formulate a response, not that he’s sure he could, with the knife crushing his windpipe, making the breath whistle from his mouth. _This really feels like the right time for a miracle_ , Eggsy thinks, trying to create another opening between the coils of rope, hoping he’s going in the right way, this time, _please, for the love of—_

 _Oh, thank fuck._ Eggsy wiggles his wrists once again, and distinctly feels the rope give way. 

Ah, but the hot jailer is still talking, isn’t he?

“And if you’re about to start making up an elaborate fib about how you got lost on your drive in from London, on your way to your posh-boy reunion down at St. Andrews or some shite, you can definitely save yer breath: I just won’t believe it—not from you.”

Eggsy scoffs, utters a rushed _fuck you then_ , and pushes his wrists in opposite directions, finally managing to free his hands. Taking advantage of that newfound freedom, he lunges his body toward where he imagines his attacker to be, signet ring primed, other hand reaching for and finally dislodging the silk over his eyes. 

The residual dizziness from his blow to the head, plus the fact that he’s not given his eyes any time to adjust, renders him effectively blind. Therefore, he misses his captor by a large margin and ends up ruinously landing back on the floor, groaning in pain and throwing his hands up defensively. He blinks against the sudden brightness, then finally focuses on the features of the man standing above his sprawled form, small silver knife in hand. 

And, well, Jesus fuck. 

Eggsy’s heard of coincidences and blind luck and _destiny_ before, and never believed in any of it. It now seems clear that he probably should reconsider, however, since the absolutely striking bloke currently eyeing him down, towering over him with a small smile and a twinkle of something in his eyes might well be none other than—

“Agent Wallace?” Eggsy wonders out loud, dumbfounded.

“Galahad, I presume,” the man replies, crouching down to look at Eggsy more closely. As he does so, Eggsy notices him casually lifting the hem of his left trouser leg to reveal a small black sheath pressed against his calf, where he carefully puts away the blade he was just threatening Eggsy with less than thirty seconds ago.

Eggsy pushes himself to a sitting position, upper body rested on his arms, and scoffs in sheer disbelief.

"Why the _fuck_ did you have me blindfolded, exactly?" Eggsy asks, poisonous.

The smirk on Wallace’s face widens. "Why, Agent Galahad,” he replies, non-committal. “Protocol, of course."

 _Un-fucking-believable._ Is this smug, attractive fuck with an apparent quirk for light bondage _really_ the man Eggsy’s supposed to be working closely with? He’s been looking forward to a change from Tequila’s odd Kentucky ways, yes, but _this_? Not a chance he’ll get through the mission alive—and it won’t be the bad guys’ fault, either.

“Bollocks, that is _protocol_ ,” Eggsy says, snapping himself out of it. Again, _really_ not the time.

“Well,” Wallace muses, raising a suggestive eyebrow at Eggsy. “ _Generally_ , Agent, guests would use the front door. Or at least the pre-arranged details they were provided. This is protocol for _intruders_ —and you definitely looked like one, back there.”

 _As if_ , Eggsy moons. As if Wallace had been completely oblivious of what Eggsy looks like. As if his quartermaster hadn’t shown him pictures, possibly _videos_ of Eggsy in action. As if Wallace hadn’t known _exactly_ who Eggsy was before he landed a blow at the base of Eggsy’s skull, sent him into a forced, painful sleep for a few hours, and put a fucking _blindfold_ on him.

Hot _and_ full of shit. Eggsy’s type to a T.

Fuck. 

Eggsy eyes Wallace, who looks positively unflappable even after delivering that giant pile of horseshit, but doesn’t retort. No use, he realises. The man will just come up with another witty one-liner and shut him the hell up again. He’s not used to this. He doesn’t _like_ this.

Wallace gets back up, then reaches out a hand to help Eggsy to his feet with a painfully handsome, yet wicked grin on his rugged face. They clasp hands in a firm grip and Eggsy is hauled to his feet in the blink of an eye. _Fuck, he’s strong_ , Eggsy considers, as he watches Wallace walk towards a small table in the corner of the room and pick up something.

He turns back around and hands Eggsy his glasses. “I believe these are yours.”

Eggsy nods in thanks, grabs them and puts them back on, only briefly registering a string of notifications—mainly Merlin cursing at him and Roxy, who's been waiting for confirmation that he got to HQ safe and sound, inquiring whether she’s officially allowed to make arrangements for his funeral—before focusing back on Wallace, who seems to be looking at him insistently.

“Welcome to Clansman, Agent Galahad.”

*

Wallace leads Eggsy from the skylight room, out the door and down a series of wooden staircases to the ground level. From there, they exit the building into the cool drizzle and salty sea air, which help clear Eggsy’s muzzy thoughts and soothe his aching head. Wallace then directs them to the adjacent building, on the side of which Eggsy can see a metal plaque, right next to a cellar door. Wallace places his hand on the plaque and the cellar door slides open to reveal a set of stone steps and a dimly lit hallway. The pair proceed down the steps and then through a metal door that requires Wallace’s retinal scan to open, _fancy_ , before continuing deep down a series of labyrinthine, windowless hallways where they seem to be completely, and slightly creepily, alone. 

_What is it with this place?_ Eggsy wonders to himself. _How is it possible there are no other people here? No staff, no other agents. Bloody unsettling is what it is._

 _Being led down the hallway of a creepy as fuck deserted distillery warehouse. Nary a human to be seen. D’you think he’s going to off me?_ Eggsy’s eyes dart left and right as he quickly composes and sends the message to Roxy through his glasses—deliberately neglecting to mention his recent and rather _unfortunate_ hostage situation.

Wallace glances over his shoulder to fix Eggsy with a calculating stare, almost as if he knew Eggsy was up to something, before turning back to continue leading him down the halls and into an elevator shaft, craftily hidden within a decommissioned still. 

“Is there no one else here?” Eggsy queries, finally breaking the awkward silence as the lift shudders into motion.

“Seeing as you decided to break into the building the farthest from our actual base of operations, there is a great deal less actual personnel through these buildings. Mostly just distillery staff and some security to keep nosy tourists out.” 

_Apparently I’m a crap spy, too, by this guy’s estimation_ , he fires off in a second message to Roxy, immediately receiving a string of _????_ in response. 

Oh right—hadn’t told Rox he was going off-book, had he? He takes a split second to silently bemoan his stupidity once more. This is going to be a fun one to explain to everyone back home. _Didn’t even make it into the building properly before getting taken down._ The umpteenth reminder of the reason why he would never have stood a chance of becoming an actual Kingsman if he hadn’t just _happened_ to save the world, really.

As he leads Eggsy out of the lift and down yet another hallway—this one looking marginally more obviously frequented, with signs of human life and adequate lighting—Wallace turns to face Eggsy with a quirk of his lips. 

“Coming up on living quarters now: I’ll be showing ye to yer rooms here at HQ. There is also a flat that has been arranged for you back in Glasgow, close to the shop, which you will get to see later.”

Wallace then comes to a stop in front of a door, taps a code or pattern on what seems to be thin air, scans his finger on the reader on the doorknob and then beckons Eggsy closer. 

“Scan yer finger here, please,” he says, indicating the same spot he just touched. 

Eggsy reaches forward and grasps the door handle, hearing the magnetic lock disengage as he pushes the door open. The room on the other side is relatively basic: a bed, desk and wardrobe along with an en-suite. There are a number of items stacked neatly at the foot of the bed and on the desk, apparently for him.

He snaps a photo and shoots Roxy another text: _New toys. Jealous? ;)_

“We took the liberty of providing you with some basics, although I’m sure you have your own clothes that you prefer. In addition, there is a distillery uniform if you want to wander about the grounds here so that you don’t run into any issues like today. Also, one of our tweed suits.” Wallace stops and takes a moment to look Eggsy up and down, in a considering, slow sweep. Eggsy feels naked, for the briefest second. “It _should_ fit,” Wallace ponders out loud, “but if you require any adjustments, please do let us know.”

Wallace then sweeps his hand out to indicate the items on the desk. “Clansman tablet, loaded with any information that might be deemed necessary while working this mission. Also, it will give you directions to anything you’ll be needing in the building. There are a few other gadgets here for you to try out. Feel free to poke about at yer own leisure. If ye’re unsure about anything, you should be able to find what ye’re looking for on the tablet—or one of us can answer your questions.” Wallace sounds bored and rattles off the instructions as if by rote. 

“Dry off, change your clothes or to take a shower, whichever you prefer. Meet back in an hour in Briefing Room Two—Hume, our quartermaster, and Robert, Head of Clansman, will be wanting to meet ye,” he says before silently turning on his heel and leaving the room.

 _Well, that was certainly... interesting. Not sure he’s terribly fond of me_ , Eggsy reflects briefly. Though he should probably take him up on that shower he’s mentioned, before trying not to get lost in this maze twelve times on the way to the briefing room.

_Shit. My case is still in the car. Well, at least they were kind enough to give me ‘the basics’—and won’t it just ingratiate me to the locals to show up all scrubbed up in their clobber?_

Eggsy strips himself efficiently, hanging up his suit to dry by the wardrobe and tucking his Oxfords neatly by the door—need to polish them later—then makes his way towards the shower. Worries about the rest can wait until he’s warm and clean and has taken a few moments to try to soothe the physical aches from his unauthorized entry, he decides. 

He exits the shower twenty minutes later amid a cloud of steam, and moves to wipe condensation off the mirror so that he can examine the extent of his injuries. 

The first thing that jumps out at him is the state of his face. Vivid pink scrapes dotted with red mar his right cheekbone: it looks as if he fell directly onto his face when he got knocked out. He’s going to have a _hell of a bruise_.

Feeling playful, he puts his glasses back on for a second and snaps a shot of himself in the mirror. He sends it to Roxy: _Remember this pretty face, love. At this rate, won’t stay pretty for long._

He raises a towel to scrub perfunctorily through his hair, and flinches at the pressure on the back of his head. Reminded of his head injury, he carefully reaches back to feel at the back of his skull, where he can feel the raised swelling of a goose-egg making its appearance. _Ow._ He’s managed to ignore the throbbing in his temples and pain shooting from the site of impact (more or less) up until now, but right now, with all of his attention now focused on his injuries, his head begins to swim a little with the pain. 

_Enough of that_. He reminds himself with a shake. _No time for weakness now. I gotta see what sort of shape I’m in and then go meet the new boss_. 

He carefully examines his wrists where they were bound, to check for any damage from his escape: he sees none past the usual, expected amount. He continues his inspection of his person, noting the bruises and lacerations, big and small, that he sustained during his little unsanctioned ‘adventure’. 

Satisfied that he is still, mostly, fighting fit, Eggsy makes his way back into the main room and rifles through the clothing for clean pants and socks, before slipping into the provided Glenglassaugh Distillery uniform and trainers.

 _At least this is comfortable, and not half-bad looking neither_ , Eggsy thinks as he looks at himself appraisingly in the mirror. He snaps another selfie with his glasses to send to Roxy. 

_Check out the free swag from the new mothership,_ he captions the image. _Do you think this ugly mug will impress the new boss?_

 _Not sure that can even be considered a face at this point,_ she opines, with a smiling winking emoji. _Eggs, you know that you would be impressive even if you wore a bin bag and had your eyebrows shaved off, so stop fishing for compliments, alright? You’ll be great, as always._

Eggsy’s aforementioned eyebrows raise in alarm. _Oi! Don’t tempt fate. With this lot, I may well have to do both those things, you never know._

After a moment he follows that up with, _But thanks, you’re the best, you know that? I’m glad you’ve always got my back._

_Best friend or best agent?_

Eggsy looks up once again following that exchange, a sudden knot in his throat at the echoed conversation from the day that he’d thought he’d lost her, and responds.

_Both._

He turns off the chat function on his glasses and refocuses on the current crisis, fixing a hard glance at his reflection and giving himself a tight nod, while straightening his clothes just the tiniest bit. 

“Alright then,” he says, out loud. "Here goes nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we really hope this was a worthy introduction to many weeks' worth of back and forths between these two quite, um, _problematic_ spy-lads that we all love oh so dearly. [D is for Dangerous](https://open.spotify.com/track/5RrHzXKmwVd5BCq4UzyJPd?si=Q3iziNQcTfadOGDpvh2OWw), alright (and Eggsy, for the love of God: do _try and keep your trousers on_ ).
> 
> As usual, please let us know what you thought of the chapter, it really makes our day to read your reactions!
> 
> See you next week,
> 
> M and C xx
> 
> P.S.: shameless self promo time. For more Scottish knifeplay goodness, why not check out our favourite boys in a wildly different context [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20419271/chapters/50515262). *googly eyes emoji*


	4. III. Congressūs Caledoniī

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting.  
> A flat.  
> A pub night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday once again, lovely peeps!
> 
> We hope you're all still with us and enjoying the ride. This week Eggsy gets a lot of information thrown his way, and, therefore, so do you. We're talking new gadgets, new tasks, and, most importantly, new characters.
> 
> In order of appearance, after our beloved **Robert** and **Hume** you might remember from the prologue, we've got:
> 
> \- **Agent Moray** , "street" name Julia Gillies, basically the Scottish equivalent of Roxy (played by Karen Gillan)  
> \- **Agent Stewart** , "street" name Richard Robertson, a man with striking blue eyes and a cheek to rival Eggsy's (played by James McAvoy)  
> \- **Agent Lamberton** , "street" name Rory Morrison, clumsy and adorable and most definitely based on Podrick Payne (played by Daniel Portman)  
> \- **Mar** , "street" name unknown, attractive brainy lady and Hume's right arm (played by Kelly MacDonald)  
> \- **Randolph** , "street" name unknown, Clansman pilot (played by Paul Bettany, and for the sake of this exercise we've made him Scottish)
> 
> It's a big family, folks, and we love them all so much. Well, except for Budd, maybe. Budd is a gorgeous, smug, sassy bitch: we _adore_ him.
> 
> As per, here is **[the playlist for this chapter](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/643UIcQORPX4ynRrm7OEOT?si=qI5MkA4yRnaGGdQefxlg_w)** : lots of Scottish faves this week, and the usual touch of Alex Turner because, well, _how_ can any good playlist be complete without him? 
> 
> But anyways: too much rambling, not enough shutting up. *fades into the background*
> 
> Happy reading!

**_III. **Congressūs Caledoniī**_ **

**_Glenglassaugh Distillery, Aberdeenshire. About noon._ **

_This fucking tablet is absolutely fucking useless_ , Eggsy moans silently to himself as he hits yet another dead end. _Either that, or someone is having a laugh._

He's been wandering (lost) around the perfectly identical Clansman hallways, fighting with the language settings on his new tablet—somehow the language has been defaulted to Gaelic and he can’t figure out how to switch it, bloody hell—he's been at it for more than twenty minutes now, and this general uselessness that seems to be the leitmotif of today is frankly starting to get on his nerves. The result of trying to follow incomprehensible directions on the stupid tablet plus all the dithering he did in his room before setting out is that he’s running late, nae, _dramatically_ late, for his meeting with the new boss. _Chief_ , he’s told they call him. Very fitting indeed. 

_Maybe I shouldn’t have taken that shower after all and just followed Wallace to the briefing room. At least I wouldn’t be lost for the fiftieth time today._

He finally stops and props himself up against a wall, keeping himself out of the nonexistent rush of people, and squints down at the tablet in his hands once again. The absence of traffic inside the distillery does feel eerie, now that he thinks about it: how is it _possible_ that he hasn’t run into another human being for the entire duration of his odyssey in the hallways? Either the building is populated by ghosts, or everyone is avoiding him. From where he’s standing, both feel equally plausible. After all, who knows what kind of shit Clansman gets up to in their spare time. 

_Alright, I’ll give it one more go, and then I’m hitting the panic button and waiting for someone to come collect me_ , he silently concedes. He’s so desperate by now, he would actually hit that button, even if that is quite possibly the most embarrassing thing that will happen to him today. He pauses momentarily to reflect on that last statement. _Well, maybe the_ second _most embarrassing thing_. Today has already been a real treat for his ego.

Eggsy squares his shoulders and re-sets the tablet to the main screen once again. There, he spots an icon he’s ninety-nine percent sure wasn’t there a minute ago. Smack in the middle of the screen, too. Electric blue, suggestive stylised symbol, caption says “Map”. _Fucking seriously?_

Now having absolutely no doubt that someone is messing with him, Eggsy huffs and shakes his head in disbelief, while he enters the coordinates for the Briefing Room and his clearance code. _Well, once more unto the breach, I guess?_ he sighs, internally. _Let’s just hope this bloody works._

For some miracle, it _bloody_ does. Eggsy can see himself on the map, the GPS tracker on the tablet situating him just a few twists and turns away from his destination. He follows the surprisingly useful directions, and, less than two minutes later, he finds himself standing in front of Briefing Room Two, flustered and feeling like a complete idiot.

Eggsy knocks on the briefing room door and opens it without waiting for a response, barging in and immediately launching into a contrite monologue.

“I’m so, _so_ sorry, sir. I’m afraid I got terribly lost on my way here from my room. Somehow my tablet got stuck in Gaelic, and I got incredibly turned around.”

Upon first glance around the room, Eggsy immediately spots his newest ‘best friend’ seated at the large wooden conference table, as well as two other people he’s wholly unfamiliar with: a younger man, who at first glance looks like the serious, brainy type, and an older gentleman with an imposing stature, sporting a short cropped white beard and glasses and an incredibly stern expression on his face. And _that_ would be the new boss, Eggsy realises. He’s suddenly even more terrified for this particular meeting to kick off. 

Robert and Hume each level an unimpressed glance at Wallace before turning their attention back to the door to greet Eggsy.

“Agent Galahad,” Robert— _this man can only be Robert_ —rumbles out, in a low Scottish burr. “This is certainly not how we had expected to welcome ye. Tell me, was there something objectionable about our hospitality in Glasgow?”

“Allergic to tartan, perhaps?” snarks Wallace from the other side of the conference table.

“I would advise that you remain _silent_ , Agent Wallace,” Robert butts back in, harshly, “as your recent behaviour has not met the expectations you are bound to as a senior member of this organisation. Your shortcomings will be dealt with accordingly, once we have dealt with Agent Galahad’s.” 

Wallace’s mouth snaps shut at the rebuke from his boss, and he keeps his gaze fixed on his hands, placed in front of him on the table. 

Robert then returns his full attention to Eggsy, making him gulp nervously. He fixes Eggsy with a stern glare, making it pretty clear that Eggsy’s absolutely, one hundred percent _fucked._ That is definitely not a good look to have levelled at you at any given time, much less the first time you meet your new boss face to face. It’s definitely starting to fully sink in how ill-advised his plan was.

“Agent Galahad?” Robert prompts. “Would you care to explain yourself?”

Eggsy steels himself before diving in, going for an air of earnest repentance. He doesn’t need any more problems with this lot: he does have to figure out a way to get along with them after all.

“I do sincerely apologise, sir. My actions were a severe lapse of judgement, and they reflected poorly on me as an agent of the Kingsman Secret Service.”

“You’re damn right they did, y’little pissant!” cuts in a voice that chills Eggsy right to the bone. 

_Fuck. Merlin._

He turns to face the hologram that he hadn’t noticed lurking in the corner behind him with a wince. _This isn’t going to be good._

“Merlin, I—”

“You deliberately disobeyed orders, Galahad!” Merlin’s hawkish features are pinched with fury. “And in doing so, you have discredited yourself and this organisation! I’m tempted to recommend you to be put on administrative leave, effective immediately.”

“Unfortunately, Merlin,” Robert cuts in, “as you well know, that isn’t an option for us right now. And our agent behaved no better—if anything, really, he behaved _worse_. Moreover, I guess it is fair tae say that we can, to an extent, sympathise with Galahad’s desire to test the capabilities of an unknown entity. As it stands, I think that it is everyone’s best interests that we continue on as planned. Agent Wallace is in need of a partner on this mission, and since Agent Galahad is already here, and if he assures us that no such thing will happen again, we will be proceeding. Agent Galahad?”

Eggsy nods at Robert earnestly, hearing a muffled snort coming from Wallace, which he pointedly ignores. “Yes, sir. Swear down, it won’t happen again. And you’re right—I was being an idiot and trying to test you, and I obviously wasn’t ready for what I found.”

Hume, silent until this moment, huffs out a disbelieving chuckle from where he is leaned up against a wall by Merlin’s hologram, holding a tablet. He shoots Merlin a commiserating glance before pushing away from the wall and speaking.

“I find that very hard to believe, Agent—based on what we know of your record. If anything, we should have anticipated this eventuality from the very beginning. And that oversight, I’m sad to say, is on me.”

“My apologies, sir. I’ll do my best not to let you down again,” Eggsy says, dejectedly. 

“Hume is sufficient, Galahad,” Hume says, with a wry grin. “We all report to the same man.”

“Alright,” Robert interjects in a quietly commanding tone. “I think we have reprimanded the boy enough.” He nods at Hume, indicating he should take over. 

“Very good, sir,” Hume acquiesces. “Galahad, please take a seat, and we will get started on the mission brief—as spartan as the details may be.” 

Hume gestures for all the occupants of the room to sit down at the conference table, joining Wallace, who is still conspicuously not looking anyone in the eye. As they all settle into their chairs, Merlin nods courteously to Robert, Hume and Wallace, utters a hasty _good luck_ gentlemen, throws a scolding look in Eggsy’s direction, and then blinks out of view. It appears he’s done with his duties for the day as far as Eggsy is concerned. Eggsy’s not yet sure if that’s good or bad, either. Angry as he appeared, Merlin still was a cushioning presence between Eggsy and these rough Northern fellas, who all seem pretty scary and really do _not_ look to be in a good mood. 

Quickly shaking that sensation off and returning his attention to the briefing room, Eggsy realises that, quite evidently, something is afoot. While his behaviour in coming to the distillery was less than ideal, it is being treated by his hosts as almost ‘reasonable spy behaviour’, which frankly astonishing in of itself. What is more intriguing, however, is what is coming to light regarding Wallace. The fact that the Clansman chief looks to be more upset with _Wallace_ ’s behaviour than his gives reasonable credence to Eggsy’s belief that the rest of this briefing will be incredibly revealing regarding his new partner. If the man’s body language is to be trusted, there is _definitely_ an issue at hand. 

Hume is the first one to speak, fingers flying deftly over his tablet and sending holographic images flying over the table. 

“As you both know, we have been made aware of multiple disappearances in the Northern European region, mostly from small communities, but starting to creep up more and more in larger urban areas. The targeted individuals are all already deceased—which is a large part of the mystery, especially as few to none of these individuals had any connection to one another prior to their deaths, other than a few obviously coincidental links.” Hume makes a face that shows how clearly displeased he is that there are no apparent leads for him to follow. 

His focus then shifts from the briefing images to Eggsy and Wallace. “We will need you gentlemen to get on the ground and start making quiet inquiries to see what additional intel we can gather. We need to know what actually connects these people, figure out why corpses are disappearing out of morgues, who’s behind this, and why. As in, what are their motives, and why target the dead?”

Eggsy raises his hand, slightly, looking like a soundly berated schoolboy. 

Hume quirks an eyebrow at him, looking rather unimpressed. “Yes, Galahad?”

“Why exactly am _I_ here? This doesn’t sound like something you need two agents on—or, at least, not at this point. And obviously Agent Wallace is good at his job, else he wouldn’t have gotten the drop on me like he did. I know you lot are short on active agents right now or something, but it doesn’t sound to me like you need _two_ people for this. Am I wrong?”

Wallace, sat across the table from Eggsy, silently drops his forehead into his right hand. Obviously they are getting to a bit of a sore point for him. _Interesting_.

“You are correct, to a point,” Hume replies. “At present, of our eight agents, we only have four operatives ready for active duty, two of whom are currently away on assignments that they can’t be pulled from. The third has just returned from a mission today, and will be out again in 72 hours. This leaves us with Agent Wallace here, whom you are already acquainted with.” Hume pauses, evidently pacing himself. “Wallace’s actions today have further highlighted the reason why we have requested the courtesy of an agent from Kingsman to assist him in this relatively delicate mission: while an excellent agent, Wallace has a tendency to… let’s say _overreact_ , in situations that could be managed with considerably more finesse. It is our hope that you working together will curtail that particular issue and allow this operation to run more smoothly. And it is vital that it does run smoothly because, if I’m right, this has the potential to be a mess of epic proportions.” 

Eggsy turns to Wallace, incredulous. “You need a babysitter for an anger management problem?” 

In response to his jibe, Wallace curls his hand into a fist on the table, truly giving substance to claims. Eggsy immediately stops a wicked smirk from creeping up on his face. _Whoops. Maybe shouldn’t have made light of that._

“Sorry, mate, don’t mean nothing by it. I’m just surprised, is all.”

Wallace grunts in acknowledgement, but doesn’t look up at him, obviously still quite perturbed. _Sure not making any friends today, am I?_ Eggsy muses to himself. 

“And Agent Wallace should have been a better host, especially after following his overzealous attack on you in the storehouse,” Robert interjects again. “Really, Wallace—changing the language function on the boy’s tablet to make him late was simply juvenile.”

“Apologies sir,” Wallace replies, addressing his boss demurely. He then turns towards Eggsy, flashes him an unquestionably insincere nod. “Agent Galahad.” 

_Well, then._ Doesn’t look like he’s ready to let the getting-assigned-a-babysitter thing go quite yet. 

“A’right boys. We’re done with you here. Get your arses on to Glasgow. Galahad needs to get set up at his flat so that you two can get boots on the ground on this, soonest,” Hume says with a cheerful, if not shit-eating grin. “Looking forward to seeing how you two work together. Be good, and I’ll be in touch.”

* 

**_Clansman flat, Townhead, Glasgow. 6:47 PM._ **

At first glance, the flat looks simple, yet it’s undoubtedly still one of the nicest places Eggsy’s ever stayed. The decor in the hallway and the living room is minimalistic—all-white walls, a simple mirror hung next to the door, a shoe cupboard, a few inconspicuous prints that most definitely came from IKEA, a light blue couch, a flat-screen TV. It is impossible not to notice that there’s a palpable austerity about the place. Likely, the flat is most often used for visiting dignitaries or important guests of Clansman’s, not wayward problematic colleagues from other intelligence organisations: it is quite obvious that Eggsy doesn't fit in here, and even the furnishings are well aware of it.

“And here’s the kitchen,” Wallace says, in the same flat-and-slightly-annoyed tone he’s adopted since the briefing, gesturing to his right as he walks further into the living room. Eggsy peers over Wallace’s shoulder to follow his colleague’s motion, and takes in a very modern kitchen—granite counters and deep forest green cupboards, separated from the living room by a snazzy breakfast bar. 

Upon closer inspection, he discovers that not only is the kitchen fancy, but it has also already been fully stocked with essentials. Merlin must’ve sent in a memo, though, because there is no chocolate or sweets of any kind in sight— _damn_ the job description for the upkeep of this ridiculous body, which seems to imply more and more nutritional restrictions, especially after hitting 30. To top it all off, he hasn’t even got the added benefit of having someone to go home and show said body off to. _Woe is me, indeed_ , Eggsy thinks.

He immediately has to correct himself, however, when he discovers a few bottles of Italian red waiting for him, neatly stacked on a wine rack next to the breakfast bar, plus a small decanter of what he can only assume is Clansman-brand whisky, and even some Tennent’s Light and a few small bright orange cans of what looks like some weird Scottish diet soda chilling in the fridge. It seems that Merlin wants Eggsy in top form, but doesn’t really hate him that much, after all.

“Ah, they got you Irn-Bru,” Wallace muses fondly, from a few feet behind Eggsy. Eggsy turns around to face him. “Irn-Bru, mixed with the spirit of your choice, is an essential combination to keep in mind, in case you’re ordering something to drink and you want to blend in with the local folks convincingly,” he explains, slightly pedantic. 

Eggsy fixes him for a second, then nods. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind. What’s it taste like?”

“I’ll let you find that one out for yourself,” Wallace replies. _So it probably tastes like carbonated piss_ , Eggsy thinks. “We done here?”

“Yes, sir,” Eggsy replies, mock-saluting him. 

Wallace presses his plump lips together, his mouth morphing into a flat, unimpressed line.

“Right. Then follow me, please. Bedroom still left, and there’s a few things I need to show ye in there.”

A heart-stoppingly good-looking bloke suggesting they move things to the bedroom? _Don’t mind if I do_ , Eggsy silently replies, as he walks behind Wallace like an eager puppy, discreetly taking in the man’s attractive figure. 

The bedroom turns out to be even more white and ascetic than the rest of the flat, but spacious and luminous all the same. Nothing on the walls, and the only pieces of furniture are a queen-size bed with cream-coloured sheets and a giant mirrored closet, towards which Wallace moves with purpose.

He opens it to reveal more tweed suits, a couple of very fancy coats that Eggsy cannot wait to try on, and, hidden in a clever fingerprint-protected double-door mechanism, more gadgets.

“So, what you have here,” Wallace says, producing a small object from inside the secret cupboard and showily holding it out for Eggsy to see, “is Clansman’s signature hip flask. It contains 50ml of our best-seller 15-year single malt.”

Eggsy raises an eyebrow at Wallace, and Wallace reads his mind. “Yes, we Scots do generally tend to hold alcohol better than youse. No, this is _not_ jus’ an excuse tae get sloshed. There’s a wee button, here, see,” he explains, turning the flask ninety degrees and pointing to a small protuberance on its thin side. “Press it, and it breaks a capsule of ricin hidden inside.”

“In case I’m up shit’s creek and I need to top meself, but I also feel like a drink while I do it?” Eggsy asks, feigning cluelessness. He’s like a petulant child, at this point: he just _loves_ the idea of getting to boss this man around in the field, and he feels like dragging this tedious work premises tour a tad longer—because this, too, is way too much fun to pass on.

“Spare me, Galahad. I know you’re not _that_ thick.”

Eggsy pulls a fake-shocked expression for a second, then smiles again. “Oh, you’re not talking about my arse, are you? Got me worried, there, mate. But for real now, what’s this snazzy thing do?”

Wallace huffs. “You drink the whisky, prove it’s not poisoned by, essentially, not dying. Then, activate the capsule, pour the target a dram. Watch them turn purple and choke on their own bile,” he lays out, deadpan.

“Oh, like on _Game of Thrones_!” Eggsy exclaims. Wallace looks blankly at him. “Seriously, mate. Joffrey? The Purple Wedding? Come on!”

“I don’ own a TV,” Wallace replies, visibly annoyed at Eggsy’s display of enthusiasm for something as mundane as _pop culture_. He looks inscrutable for one moment, and his eyes shift: they stare at a point over Eggsy’s right shoulder, like he’s seeing something there. Eggsy’s about to turn his head and look, suddenly alert for potential danger, but just before he can do it, Wallace seems to come back. “Although that does ring a bell, now that I think about it. Something about someone dying at a wedding. Must be what ye’re on about. Anyways. Moving on?” he says, back to a business-like tone.

Eggsy nods and hands Wallace back the flask, smirking at him. _One day_ , he thinks. _One day he’ll watch it and understand the reference._

“Now, this,” Wallace says, picking an elegant old-timey copper pocket watch by its chain and dangling it in front of Eggsy’s face. “This is pretty standard tech, at first sight. Pull this,” he hooks his index finger inside the hoop at the top of the watch, then vigorously tugs at it, revealing a short but sturdy-looking bit of wire, “and you have a garroting device.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Eggsy concedes. “Not exactly reinventing the wheel so far,” he offers.

That retort rewards him with an exasperated look from Wallace. “If you would let me _finish_ , Galahad,” he says, annoyed, as Eggsy raises both hands in surrender. “If ye open it—please be careful—you’ll discover there’s four wee capsules of white powder in there. Again, before ye ask: the purpose is not recreational. Although it can be, if you so wish, provided it’s used on targets only, of course. The powder has special receptors that are tethered to the watch movement. Ye just need to press this button here to change the effect the powder’ll have. Can be anything from a mild high to an extremely destructive and ultimately lethal dose of the best snow on the market. Used it on a honeypot once—worked like a bloody charm.”

Eggsy’s eyes widen in disbelief. _These Scots really do not play around, do they?_

“...and that seems to have finally shut you up,” Wallace says, appreciatively, stashing the watch away before Eggsy can even pick it up. “What’s the matter, posh boy—this too much for ye?”

 _Oh, fuck off._ “Not at all, Agent Wallace. Just taking it all in,” Eggsy replies. “By all means, do go on.”

“Right. So, this you’re already somewhat familiar with,” Wallace continues, smirking as he produces what looks like a small knife stashed in a midnight black leather hilt. He ostentatiously holds it between his two index fingers and nonchalantly passes it to Eggsy.

For his part, Eggsy has to try _really hard_ not to let his face give him away, as this is obviously an identical blade to the one he had pressed against his throat only a few hours ago. The one that absolutely did not trigger any kind of way too eager physical response.

“I believe so, yes,” Eggsy replies, grabbing it from Wallace’s showy display and turning it over in his hands. He runs the tip of his fingers over the delicate floral embossing on the hilt, fixating for a few seconds on what looks like a small ruby. “Dandy li’l dagger, innit?” he says, raising his gaze to meet Wallace’s once again.”

“A _sgian_ , Galahad,” Wallace corrects him, condescending. “A nifty spin on a classic accessory. We only wear this properly when we’re in full pomp and circumstance mode, of course...” 

_Aka, when you wear tartan skirts and walk around balls naked, I’m assuming_ , Eggsy thinks, unable to help himself.

“...but on the daily, we wear it on an ankle strap. Well, you’re aware of that, of course,” Wallace says, oblivious to Eggsy’s rude silent interruption. He points at the gem on the hilt. “Press this, and the blade gets instantaneously coated in a paralytic solution.”

“Wicked,” Eggsy replies, immediately moving his finger away from it. “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you hadn’t activated it when it was me you were threatening with it,” he somehow says out loud.

Wallace raises an eyebrow at him. “Why, Galahad. Who d’ye take me for?”

 _Fuck knows_ , Eggsy thinks. _I don’t know you, you stupid gorgeous dangerous man with a short temper. You could very well have taken every precaution._

Eggsy shrugs, handing the _sgian_ back to said stunning specimen. “Of course, Wallace. Apologies,” he says, winking at him.

He can tell Wallace is doing his utmost not to roll his eyes as he fishes inside a drawer to retrieve another item.

“And lastly, this wee beauty,” Wallace says, opening a small navy blue box and picking up one of the two heavy-looking shining silver cufflinks cushioned inside. “With this, you can—ah, hold on a second, Galahad,” he interrupts himself, his stare going very blank for a second. He hands Eggsy the box, then walks off, “I’ve got tae take this.” 

Thrown for a loop by Wallace’s abrupt departure, Eggsy stares at the cufflinks for a few seconds, then puts them back in the drawer, and discreetly follows Wallace out of the room, settling in to eavesdrop on the conversation the man is very obviously having via some kind of invisible communication device.

“Yeah, yeah I’m in town,” Wallace is saying. “Yeah, Juls. Yeah, he is. Just showing him the flat.” He pauses for a second. “No, it’s the one in Townhead, after all—wee dafty tried to pull a stunt on us this morning, and now the Chief wants him no more than a spitting distance from the shop.” He chuckles lightly, as Eggsy’s ego takes another hit. “Yeah, why not, I think we’re done here, anyways. Shall we say the Curlers, in half an hour?” Another pause, an annoyed huff. “Course I’m bringing him—can’t very well justify ditching him just to get a pint with youse. Especially if the other fuckers are there, too.” He scratches his chin. “Alright, _mo_ _grá_ , see ye in a tick.”

Silence falls for a couple of seconds, then Eggsy hears Wallace call out, “Galahad, for fuck’s sake—thought you’d done enough lurking for one day?”

 _Um, okay_ , Eggsy thinks, slightly flabbergasted. _Can this man see through walls or summat? Better play it cool._

“Right, right, of course, Wallace,” Eggsy says, as he comes out from his hiding spot behind the corner, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Apologies, chief,” he continues, but then decides to earn the _wee shite_ status he apparently already has within Clansman, and doubles down. “Will try and keep the, erm, _little issue_ in mind. I’m here for it, after all, ain’t I?”

Wallace looks positively vexed. Nostrils flaring imperceptibly, jaw clenching, fists closing, brow furrowing. 

_He’s fucking gorgeous_ , Danger-Kink-Demon whispers to Eggsy.

 _He’s fucking scary, is what he is_ , argues the normally not-very-talkative, rational side of him. _You really shouldn’t push it._

“If you’re quite done, Galahad,” Wallace replies, half through gritted teeth. “We should get going. Pub. Want ye tae meet a few people.”

Eggsy smiles cordially at him. “Course. Been gasping for a pint.” _Let’s hope your lot aren’t as difficult as you are._

*

**_Byres Road, Hillhead. Later that evening._ **

Forty minutes, one short cab ride, some scouting around the pub, and half a pint later, Eggsy is pleasantly surprised to discover that Wallace _is_ the rum one, after all, and that his lot are indeed as lovely as they come.

Crowded into a back corner booth of The Curlers Rest pub in the heart of the Glasgow West End, Eggsy sighs in relief and absolute contentment for the first time that day. He’s clutching a pint of lager brewed less than four miles from where they’re sitting, deep in conversation with some very pleasant people, and he realises he feels weirdly at home amid the rowdy Scots: they’re loud and unapologetic and they curse a lot—all things that are right up his street. 

The distraction also means that he’s effectively paying way less attention to Wallace’s icy blue gaze and frosty demeanour. Not that the man’s focus is on Eggsy in any way, mind: no, now that other people are around, it’s like Eggsy has momentarily ceased to exist in his eyes. Eyes that, incidentally, are absolutely riveted onto the redhead sitting next to him—codename Moray, _but you can call me Julia, love, everyone does_. A stunning giraffe of a woman, legs a mile long, toned figure, endearing heart-shaped face, bright hazel eyes, funny as hell, a level of badass rivalling even Roxy… _ah, God, they’re fucking, aren’t they?_ Eggsy is debatably not a master of the old “reading the room” thing, but this time round he can swear he’s right. There’s just _something_ about the way Wallace looks at her. How she leans into him while laughing at his jokes— _so he’s got a sense of humour, good to know_ —and just won’t stop touching him. Arms, hands, chest, hair, face, Christ, they’re so obvious, it’s almost uncomfortable to watch.

“So, as I was saying… Galahad? You with us, lad?” a deep voice interrupts Eggsy’s reverie. He diverts his gaze from the pair of, ugh, _lovebirds_ sitting opposite him, and focuses back on the man he’s been talking to for the past five minutes: Richard, codename Stewart, recovering from a rough beating during his last mission that saw his femur broken and subsequently laid him up for several weeks in bed, plus several more weeks of physio, which is still ongoing. _Always up for a pint, though_ , he said, winking at Eggsy and effectively turning all of his insides into mush. 

Because the universe has apparently decided to conspire against Eggsy, Stewart just so happens to be another striking specimen of what Roxy would probably refer to as _Scottish beef_ —Glaswegian born and bred, barely understandable when he speaks and, of course, to-die-for handsome. Going by his gorgeous smile lines, the salt-and-pepper in his hair and beard, and the slightly paternal tone the man’s adopting with him, Eggsy would probably situate Stewart in his late thirties, early forties tops, which in turn attracts the attention of yet another of his slumbering demons: the one who whispers in his ear that it’s perfectly fine for him to fall for older, more competent and more powerful men.

“Yes, sorry,” Eggsy frantically apologises, taking another sip of beer and grinning. “Long day.”

“Rough, too?” interjects the man sitting on Eggsy’s left—Rory, codename Lamberton, the first really friendly and entirely not intimidating face Eggsy’s seen in almost two whole days. “I mean. Yer face, it’s…” he trails off, looking at Eggsy, then at Stewart. 

“Yeah, I’m afraid I may have met my match today—in the form of a couple of steps I failed to spot at HQ,” he lies through his teeth, side-eyeing Wallace as discreetly as he can muster. “Fell right on my face.”

“And what a wee crying shame that is,” Stewart says, grazing Eggsy’s reddened and raw left cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Such a _gorgeous_ face—no-one should touch it, ever,” he delivers, suave as fuck, and Eggsy tries his absolute fucking best not to think of 1960’s Sean Connery, then fails miserably and proceeds to desperately swoon. Internally, of course.

 _Rox, please patch into my feed for a sec. I think I’ve just met my future husband_ , Eggsy texts Roxy through his glasses.

His streak of bad luck looks to be wearing off, because Roxy immediately responds to his call. “Well, good evening. Who might this stunning specimen be?” she says, appreciatively. 

Eggsy blushes. _Name’s Richard._ _I said you could watch, but please refrain from making comments that will give me away?_

Roxy blows him a raspberry. “Sure, whatever. Wow, are those contact lenses on this guy?”

 _I don’t think so. Please, behave_ , he types back, while he smiles coyly, momentarily lost in said ocean blue eyes.

“Like I said,” he shrugs, looking between Stewart and Lamberton. “Stairs.”

Lamberton pats Eggsy’s shoulder in sympathy. “I know _exactly_ the ones ye mean! The amount of times that happened to me. At least ye’re new, and ye’re justified. These guys have a running bet on how many times I’ll trip and fall on those by the end of the year. Stewart here says 50.”

“We’ve both got a tenner each on 100,” Julia chimes in brightly, forefinger moving to indicate herself and Wallace in turn. Eggsy can’t help but notice she’s now… _nestled_ under Wallace’s arm. Not that Eggsy minds or cares, of course.

“See what I have to deal with? A concussion from my last trip to Denmark, and these cunts taking the piss on top of it,” Lamberton muses, smiling against the rim of his pint glass as he drinks from it.

“We do adore ye, though, y’know, you clumsy fuck,” Wallace says, raising his glass as if to make a toast. “To Lamberton and Galahad: may they steer clear of stairs for a wee while.”

 _The nerve of him._ Eggsy fails to recollect why exactly he felt the need to lie about the nature of his injury, because this absolute rotter certainly doesn’t deserve to be made to look good, right now. Or actually, Eggsy suspects, _ever_.

Eggsy suddenly hears Roxy in his ears once again. “Wow, this guy needs to pipe the fuck down.” 

_Tell me about it_ , he quickly composes back, as the rest of the table toasts them. Eggsy has to shut up and take it, say cheers to his own stupidity and his new colleague’s problematic behaviour—but then he fleetingly remembers the word _babysitter_ and the look on Wallace’s face as he was being told off by his bosses, and cheers himself up a bit. Stewart’s eyes on him and Lamberton’s amused resignation certainly help, too.

A couple of people get up for a refill, and Eggsy finds himself side-eyeing Wallace, who seems to be enthralled by the condensation accumulating on the side of his glass. As he’s tracing one stray drop with the tip of a finger, he sniggers—like he’s just heard a funny joke and he’s reacting to it, except no one’s said anything. Nobody’s talking to him, not even Julia, whom he’s still holding relatively close to him on the bench. She, too, seems to be grinning slightly manically for a sec, and then Eggsy observes as they look at each other and explode in a burst of loud mirth, that, again, appears to be completely unjustified.

_It’s like they’re… Connected. Wow, this must be more than just fucking, after all, eh?_

“Before you ask, Galahad—yes, it’s always like this,” Stewart tells Eggsy, shaking his head. “Oi, you two: anything ye care tae share with the class?” he bellows at Wallace and Julia, raising a knowing eyebrow at them.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Julia replies, still chuckling lightly and dramatically drying a tear of laughter escaping the corner of her left eye. “Just remembered something that happened in Copenhagen, last time we were out there. Right, Wallace?”

“Right, Juls. Sorry, fellas, cannae share, though—highly classified.”

 _Sure is, you giant prick_ , Eggsy thinks to himself, as he scoffs into his last sip of lager. He takes advantage of the brief silence to send Roxy another text. _Dunno if you saw that, but from here it looked an awful lot like they were laughing at me._

 _“_ I unfortunately have to agree, love. What the fuck’s up with this telepathy thing, though? Some kind of tech we don’t know about?” Roxy replies, sounding pissed on Eggsy’s behalf but also extremely intrigued.

“Sounds like you two had a blast,” Eggsy says, hopefully not too spiteful. “Oh, lookit, I’m all out of wallop. ‘xcuse me, m’lady. Gents.” He nods at the people around the table and shifts towards the end of the bench to stand up.

Just then, Lamberton comes back holding another round for the two of them. “Gotcha, son,” he says, winking at him.

“Ta, mate,” Eggsy replies, grateful but crestfallen to have had his escape route barred.

“Oh my God,” Roxy squeals, “isn’t he just the most adorable thing. How is _he_ in the biz?”

 _I’m told Rory’s track record is impressive, too_ , Eggsy texts back.

“Cute _and_ deadly. Kinda like you, eh?” Roxy muses. “Well done, Rory. Oh, by the way, Eggs—how come you seem to know everyone’s real names but the one of the man you’re actually going to be working with?”

 _That is indeed very strange._ “So,” Eggsy breaks yet another slightly uncomfortable silence, a bit too loudly. “Quick question for my new partner: d’you have a name, or are you actually _called_ Wallace?”

That gains Eggsy an eruption of laughter from the whole table, and somehow also brings Stewart’s hand on Eggsy’s thigh, which makes him go quite rigid for a second. Stewart just pats him amicably, however, no funny business— _pity_ —and states, “Ah, son. Might as well be, to be fair. Don’ know if even he remembers his real name, by this point. Isn’t that right, Wallace, you old tart?”

“Haven’t gone by that in a while,” Wallace confirms, swirling his new drink around in his hand.

“That might be mine and Hume’s fault, I’m afraid,” chips in the tiny, bespeckled and extremely attractive woman on Wallace’s other side. “We had to use his real identity for a mission a while back. Again, highly classified,” she says, mysteriously, gazing at Eggsy intensely. As if she was _reading_ him.

“I’m sorry, how had I not noticed _her_ before?” Roxy whispers, sounding extremely keen. “She’s absolutely gorgeous.”

_She introduced herself as Mar. Pretty sure she’s one of Hume’s minions. She scares the shit out of me, if I’m honest._

“That’s okay,” Eggsy replies, then quickly looks from Mar to Wallace to discover he’s running a hand through his hair and smirking. “Starting to sense a pattern, here, mate. Sorry I asked. Plus, Wallace is a cool name. Has a nice ring to it.”

“That’s actually what me and my wife want to call our little boy,” interjects the tall, blond man sitting next to Mar.

 _Before you ask_ , Eggsy types in for Roxy. _Randolph. Clansman’s pilot._

“Ach, that’s a good lad, Randy! A fine Scotsman he’ll grow up tae be, with a name like that!” Stewart exclaims, warmly. 

Suddenly, another toast is happening, this time to the name “Wallace”, and Eggsy somehow feels humiliated all over again.

“He’s a bit of a hero of ours,” Randolph explains. “Lydia’s been poorly, see—bed-ridden since the start of her second trimester. Made me rewatch _Braveheart_ with her at least ten times in the last two months. She says it comforts her, that the baby likes it. As soon as we discovered we were going to have a boy, it felt like a bit of an obvious choice, for us, really,” he says, smiling. He looks happy, but also tired and worried. 

“My two wee bairns are called Fergus and Lainie, like their grandparents,” Stewart replies, fishing his phone from his pocket and unlocking it to show the faces of two smiling children, a boy and a girl, their eyes the same impossible shade of blue as his. “Ye should always keep it traditional, I say. Our heritage is what gives us strength, and our names should be a testament and a celebration of it.”

“Hear, hear!” shouts everyone at the table, which forces Eggsy to effectively _drink to Scotland_ , something that he bets Merlin would be absolutely delighted to see happening. At the same time, Eggsy hopefully scrutinises Stewart’s left hand in search of clues, and his heart sinks a little when he sees it—the faint indent of a thin band on his third finger, as if the man was used to wearing a wedding ring, but temporarily removed it.

 _Looks like my bad luck hasn’t run out after all_ , he pitifully thinks to himself. _Course he’s hitched._

“Aw, love, I’m sorry,” Roxy consoles him, evidently also aware of the newly appeared giant neon sign floating over Stewart’s head that says “off the market” in all caps. “Hey, that’s never stopped you before, though, has it?” 

_Those were missions, Rox, c’mon. I would never._

“They look just like you,” Eggsy says to Stewart, half because it’s absolutely true, half because he never bloody knows what to say to people when they show him pictures of their kids, and that sounds like it would be a safe choice.

Stewart beams in pride. “Their Ma says they take after me a wee bit too much. Always into trouble and taking things apart, but haven’t quite figured out how to put them back together just yet. I hope they grow out of taking after me, honestly, I was an unholy terror.” He looks as if his emotions belie his words, though, so much pride at their mischief that it may as well be shining from his face like a beacon. 

“And I’m sure they will continue to wreak havoc, no doubt. Especially given your propensity for trouble,” Mar says with an elegant snort. “Just keep them out of the agency until I retire. I refuse to deal with two more of you.”

The rest of the table nods in agreement and breaks into chuckles. Stewart, apparently, is quite the mischief maker—but Eggsy’s not really surprised: that seems to be a common trait among all of the Clansman agents.

“Speaking of the little devils, I should get home to help Jan put them to bed. One of the perks of being on medical leave, I’d say,” Stewart says turning back to Eggsy once more. “It has been a pleasure meeting ye Galahad. I’m certain I’ll be seeing you at more of these nights in the future, but until then, don’t be a stranger, alrite? We’re all great friends here, and always happy to help with whatever you may need.”

“Thank you, Stewart, it’s been a pleasure,” Eggsy says as he and Lamberton scoot awkwardly out of the booth to let Stewart exit. The man had been given an inside seat to minimize the need for him to constantly stand for others at the table due to his injury, but it also made maneuvering himself out from the inside of the table a slow and slightly painful process. 

While he patiently waits for Stewart to make his way out, Eggsy takes note of Wallace once again. He’s in deep silent conversation with Julia again, but he’s obviously very attuned to being observed, because his head almost immediately comes up and turns toward Eggsy, and their eyes lock. After a second of silently looking at each other, Wallace makes a show of going to stand too. 

“My apologies for getting you all up,” he excuses himself to Randy and Mar who start to shuffle off the bench. “But we should be getting a move on as well. Got tae get Galahad safely back to his flat at a decent hour, so that he can finally get settled in. We have lots of work to do, starting tomorrow.”

“Bossy,” Roxy comments in a sing-song voice. “Bet you love that, hey Eggs?”

Eggsy, stil more than slightly pissed about the insinuations Roxy just made about his character and his ‘questionable moral compass’, is suddenly less inclined to listen to her make light of him at the moment.

 _Sorry Rox. We’re done for tonight,_ Eggsy texts back, before shutting off his glasses. He was not at all ready for the peanut gallery commentary on this one, but he’s sure he will be getting an earful from Roxy later. If he bothers to pick up, that is. 

He nods at Wallace, then turns to the remaining people at the table with a charming smile and a half wave. “It’s been very nice meeting you all tonight. I look forward to working with you all while I’m here to _assist_ Wallace,” he says, getting in that veiled dig. He’s done protecting Wallace and getting walked all over in return. He’s firm with himself, for once. _No more Mister Nice Spy._

As everyone around the table choruses their goodbyes, Eggsy catches Wallace’s profile and the shadow of his jawline while he swings his coat around his shoulders. 

_But damn is he ever gorgeous. And, obviously, taken. Why are all the men I fancy devilishly handsome and ultimately unavailable?_

Eggsy shakes himself internally and decides in that moment to be firm in his resolve. He moves with purpose behind Wallace, towards the door and outside into the pouring rain, suddenly just as keen to get back to his flat as Wallace is to be rid of him for the evening. Of course, little does Wallace know that he and his little knife— _sgian,_ Eggsy corrects himself mentally—will be coming in with him anyway. 

And indeed: tomorrow, he won’t hold back. _But that still leaves tonight_ , he thinks to himself. Tonight, he is not going to let himself wallow in the continued disappointments of the day. Tonight, he can definitely indulge in a little fantasy. 

_Tomorrow is a new day. But at least I can make the most of today._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, wasn't that a rollercoaster for our sweet ~~innocent~~ baby boy.
> 
> We hope you enjoyed this week's rather less chaotic shenanigans, and that you're ready for some real action in next week's installment of _Kingsman: Idiots to Lovers_. Oh, also: hold on to your hats, because we're moving onto Budd's POV—and boy oh boy does he have _a lot_ to say.
> 
> If you choose to leave us kudos or even a wee comment, we'll be forever in your debt. And if you're not interested, we can send you our homemade ice cream in temperature-controlled packages as a thank you. We promise it's ze best.  
> (Seriously, though: this story is taking over both our lives. Our damned _kingdom_ for a comment. *crying emoji*)
> 
> See you next week!
> 
> Love,
> 
> M and C xx


	5. IV. Inefficācēs speculatorēs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small-scale devastation.  
> A phone call.  
> An unexpected sexual encounter.  
> A lesson in teamwork.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello friends!  
> Guess what day it is! You guessed, the same day that comes every week! Tuesday!!!  
> And we're back with a (literal) bang, aka our proudest brain-baby (so far).  
> This week, we bring you the first installment in the triptych of David Budd, quite aptly titled _Ineffective Spies_.
> 
> You'll probably find that the first song in our **[playlist of the week](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0yBARJ8mCKLE5WzKE0NIyf?si=HnaCZizLRECO3iXFFRy82A)** describes our boys quite well: separate and ever deadly.
> 
> The only bit of admin for you this week concerns something we haven't yet talked about: the **Clansman neural network**. Tis Hume's brainchild, and a great one at that: every member of Clansman is connected via a telepathic network, which allows for non-verbal communication and also some special heightened senses spoopy stuff (remember David and Julia laughing at silent jokes last week? Yeah, that was the neural network.) More or less the same functionalities as the Kingsman glasses, only internal and therefore a thousand times cooler. We felt it was important to specify all this here, since we're diving into Budd's world this week.
> 
> We can't wait for you to meet our David, so without further ado, we'll let him introduce himself. See you later!
> 
> P.S.: here comes your first official smut warning, earning us our E rating in full. We hope you'll have a good time with that bit of the chapter—definitely hold on to your knickers.

_**IV. Inefficācēs speculatorēs** _

**_Mikkeli, Finland. Late March. 1:04 PM._ **

“Get down, you fecking idiot!” David bellows at Galahad from across the room. 

Galahad’s head snaps up from where he has just taken down a hulking nordic gang member in a leather vest. His eyes widen in alarm as he notes the cannon being aimed at his chest. He drops to the ground just in time for the round to whiz harmlessly over his head and blow up half the wall behind him. 

David, satisfied that his so-called partner won’t be getting his ridiculously overly coiffed head blown up in the next five seconds, quickly resumes his engagement with the two enormous bikers in front of him. 

How the fuck have they even gotten themselves into this mess? This was supposed to be a quick in and out with some additional information about the disappearances, _but no_ , Galahad had to stick his big fat nose into— _fuck_!

David lands on his back, winded—knocked down by a hammer-like blow to his chest from one of the vikings in front of him. _This was so not the plan._ He quickly kicks out to sweep the giant’s legs out from under him but, before he can do so, he finds twenty-odd stone of dead weight coming to land directly on his already bruised chest. The goon has seemingly been knocked out from across the room by David’s ever-so-attentive umbrella-wielding babysitter—who, as a bonus, managed to inconvenience David at the same time. _Tosser._

“You piece of shit, Galahad. I swear to ever loving Christ, if ye don’t stop taking me out as collateral with your stupid English spy gadgets, I will report you for gross incompetence!”

“A _thank you_ would be nice,” Galahad replies, jogging over and rolling the unconscious man off of David, offering a hand to help him up. “Anything broken?”

“I had it under control, you absolute wanker,” David spits out, seething. 

“I would apologise, Wally, but time is of the essence. Got to get our arses out of here before this place blows up. Idiots over there laid charges before coming in to do their intimidation schtick with the coroner, and I got a look at the timer before the second halfwit smashed it to stop me from disarming it.”

“What the fuck are you doing yammering on, then? How much time do we have?” David says scrambling to his feet, ignoring the outstretched hand. 

“About 40 seconds, give or take?” Galahad replies, tilting his head and furrowing his brow in thought.

“Then we’d better run—I’m sure there will be more motorcycle gang knobs between us and the exit. Plus we should make sure that any civilians are cleared from the building, if we can swing it.”

David starts sprinting towards the doors leading to the exit just as another four gang members round the corner, wielding what appear to be military grenade launchers and machine guns.

Galahad opens his godforsaken umbrella again and holds it up like a shield between them and their adversaries. “Get behind me, yeah? I’ll cover us.”

“With what, your ridiculous brolly?” David retorts tearing a button off his waistcoat and arming the mechanism with his thumbnail before throwing it in the direction of their aggressors. 

“Yes with my _brolly_ , you arsehole,” Galahad spits back. He then pauses and his eyes widen as he catches sight of David tossing the button. “What the fuck is that?” he asks, sheltering them both behind his umbrella as the button explodes and throws the four men flying backwards. 

“Buttons on the waistcoats are explosives, and those on the jackets are electrical charges. Now, let’s get a move on,” David urges, darting out past him and down the hallway towards the exit once again, hearing quick footsteps behind him indicating that Galahad is following. 

They make it out onto the snowy and slushy street with mere seconds to spare, as the building explodes behind them and throws them forward. David hits the ground with a dull thud and a grunt and an altogether unpleasant faceful of dirty snow. 

“ _Fuck me_ ,” David hears Galahad exclaim under his breath from to his right. He looks over to see the man already in a crouch, and not a speck of snow or brown slush on him, almost like he hadn’t even hit the ground. As a result, Galahad has spotted what David has thus far missed; a group of more than ten gang members slowly approaching them from the once quaint surrounding buildings and spilling out onto the snowy street. _Feck me is right_. David pushes himself to his feet as quickly as possible, squaring off to the approaching men.

“Any ideas, Wallace? We are already at ground zero for a lot more damage in Mikkeli than originally anticipated, and I would imagine the residents of this once quiet town would appreciate it if we don’t increase it.”

“Considering these louts are carrying more grenade launchers and assault rifles, it seems extremely unlikely that this town is going to come out of this without further damage,” David asserts, bitterly.

“Shit,” Galahad swears, “this is another lead _literally_ up in smoke, and more evidence destroyed. Chief is not going to be pleased. With either of us.” He punctuates that by once again bringing his umbrella up like a shield and setting it to stun mode. 

“Forget the Chief, our problem is right here and now. We need tae get the hell out of here with our own skin intact and with minimal loss of civilian life and property. Let’s get a move on. The police will be here in no time, and we really don’t want to have to deal with that as well.”

Galahad, still covering himself with his umbrella, nods tightly and carefully shoots down a couple of the men holding the grenade launchers, knocking them out cold. David takes the opportunity to draw his pistol and a throwing knife. 

The remaining men, seemingly deciding that the strange duo in the middle of the street are, after all, a threat, begin to run and take cover, firing off wild shots with both machine gun and grenade launcher, causing mass panic and untold damage to the surrounding buildings. 

David and Galahad continue to take cover behind the now battered umbrella, while quickly making their way behind some nearby parked cars for additional shelter. David leans out from behind said car to take a shot and, in the brief second he is out of cover, a bullet flies past his nose, grazing his cheekbone. _Fuck._ That was a bit too close. We definitely need a better plan, pronto. Not making Ella and Charlie orphans over an idiotic squabble that escalated a tad too quickly.

Apparently, Galahad is one step ahead of David, efficiently breaking into the black Toyota Estate that he is sheltered behind and starting it. “Wallace! Let’s go!” he calls, gunning the engine and doing his best to keep his head down. 

David keeps himself below the window-line on the vehicles, carefully making his way over to the running Toyota. Hearing heavy footsteps clattering behind him, he straightens and spins to face his attacker, blindly throwing the knife still in his hand and catching a large blonde thug in the centre of the chest. 

Without checking to see if the man is dead, or even stopping to collect his thrown knife, David sprints headlong towards the vehicle with the now flung open passenger door and ducks inside, slamming the door after him. As soon as David is inside, Galahad floors the accelerator making the engine roar and a messy rain of snow blow back from under the tyres. The car skids away down the street, fishtailing a little as Galahad fights for control of the heavy machinery over the unpredictable elements.

“Cover us, yeah?” Galahad says, as he expertly handles the vehicle, keeping a keen eye on traffic and the now approaching men in giant blacked out SUVs. _They must have called for back-up. This is definitely not good either._

“Already on it,” David replies, getting the window open and carefully aiming his weapon. 

His first shot takes out the front tyre of the lead vehicle, causing it to swerve into oncoming traffic and off the road. Two other SUVs quickly take the place of the first, and move to keep a close tail on them. Even as deftly as Galahad seems to be maneuvering them through traffic, it still is a herculean task not to crash the car: they are still dealing with icy Finnish roads in late-March, while driving a less than capable front wheel drive estate car, while _also_ being pursued by heavy 4X4 vehicles with drivers well versed to the conditions, for fuck’s sake.

The bikers return fire, bullets raining down on them as Galahad does his best to dodge. Eventually, however, they manage to shoot out the rear window of the vehicle, causing both David and Galahad to duck their heads as much as possible to get out of the line of fire. David then turns around in his seat and takes careful aim through the hole where the rear windscreen once was. He breathes out, evening out his breath. On an exhale, he squeezes the trigger. Headshot. Passenger down. The SUVs back off a little to stay out of range of further bullets. 

“Galahad, we _really_ need an exit strategy. I can hear sirens,” he shouts over the sound of the wind whipping through the vehicle.

“Doing my best here, bruv—it’s not like we had a contingency plan for being attacked by an outlaw motorcycle gang! And it’s not like I hear you coming up with any great plans, neither!” Galahad bellows back, his words faint as they are carried out the window.

“Well, if it weren’t for you and yer big fat interfering gobshite of a face, we wouldn’t be in this bloody mess at all! You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?”

“I wasn’t about to let that poor woman be intimidated by that prick!” Galahad retorts, irritably. “How was I to know that he had about a million friends and had armed the building to blow up?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? He’s a member of an outlaw motorcycle gang, you fucking numpty! He was wearing a bloody vest with the stupid 1% symbol on it! Do they teach you bloody nothing in that pansy arse tailor shop masquerading as an intelligence agency?”

David turns his head to cast a glance at Galahad’s face, noting that his mouth is set mulishly, obviously not willing to concede to his point. 

“It just wasn’t right, okay? No one should be intimidating people into paying them for nothing.”

“That is not a matter for us to be involved with! The local authorities are more than capable of handling that sort of thing!” David grits out. He understands Galahad’s point, and it is hard for him too to sit by the wayside and watch injustice unfold. But they have a _job_ to do, and this—being on the run from motorcycle gang thugs, with the Finnish police not far behind—definitely isn’t it. Very euphemistically speaking, this is a _far less than ideal situation_. Also, one that could very well have been avoided. 

Galahad huffs in response, barely audible over the wind. They take a sharp left, David once again attempting shots at the vehicle behind them, with no luck. He turns briefly back towards the front of the vehicle and spots a bridge up ahead.

Galahad, who also appears to have seen the bridge, turns to him with a raised eyebrow. “How long can you hold your breath?” he asks, with a wicked smile.

“Underwater? Much longer than you, I reckon,” David smirks back, digging in his waistcoat pocket for a couple of Clansman’s micro oxygen isolators—a nifty little gadget that can break down water molecules and isolate the oxygen for underwater breathing, and the _perfect_ piece of gear to get one back on the stupid dumb shite. “You got yer thermals on under your tweed, there, Galahad? It will be a mighty cold dip otherwise.”

“Wanna bet on that, bruv?” Galahad retorts in response to his boast before focusing back on the problem at hand. “I’ve got my thermals on, _Dad_. Now, just hand me one of those hoods and a pair of gloves I know you’ve got stashed away somewhere. We’re not going to survive this stunt otherwise.”

David nods and reaches into Galahad’s jacket pocket, pulling out a thermal hood and gloves and gracelessly jamming it onto the other man’s head, making sure it catches and pulls on the man’s glasses and ears. _Serves the prick right,_ David thinks, before throwing the gloves into Galahad’s lap and quickly grabbing his own from his pocket, making short work of pulling them on and fixing the oxygen isolator into his nostrils in anticipation of their icy dip. 

The micro-thin thermal layers are a godsend on missions like these, light and inconspicuous enough that they can be worn under regular clothes, but extremely effective at maintaining body heat in sub-zero conditions, even underwater. David hadn’t anticipated needing them for their _water_ capabilities on this particular trip, but it was always good practice to have it on in the north during winter months. 

Galahad straightens the hood and his glasses one-handed and sends the vehicle into an effortlessly controlled spin, causing the car to hit the guardrails and flip over the side of the bridge. The Toyota tumbles through the air, both men bracing themselves on the internal framing of the vehicle as they anticipate impact with the icy water. 

The car makes impact with a crack of breaking ice, the groan of bending steel and the dull thwap of deploying airbags. Frigid water rushes into the cabin as David and Galahad take one final breath of icy Finnish air before they sink under the ice into the inky depths of Lake Annilanselkä. 

David’s eyes, which had closed on reflex as they went under the water, open again, and he looks over at Galahad to make sure that he’s still alive and well. The man’s eyes stare back at him defiantly, and he makes a motion with his hands to suggest that they exit the vehicle. David nods and makes his way through his still open window into the dark water surrounding them. 

Once out of the vehicle, David takes pity on Galahad and motions for him to come closer, palming the second oxygen isolator in his gloved hand. As the man swims towards him and they use their arms to keep themselves at the same level underwater, David comes even closer and holds up his empty palm in a ‘stop’ motion. _This would be a sight easier if we could just communicate in the civilised Clansman way_ , he thinks to himself wryly. Unfortunately, that is not his secret to tell and, even if he could tell Galahad now, it wouldn’t help them. He holds up the index finger of his other hand, still cupping the device in his palm, trying to tell Galahad to _wait a moment_ as David grabs the man’s face with his free hand, ignoring Galahad’s shocked and wary expression. He takes advantage of Galahad’s surprise and decreased reflexes due to the cold and jams the tiny device into the man’s nostrils. He pantomimes breathing out, and then back in, both with his own breath and his arms, hopeful that the numpty will get his meaning. 

Remarkably, he isn’t quite as dumb as he seems, because he cottons on very quickly, drawing in a shocked breath through his nose. 

_Fuck you,_ Galahad signs quickly in BSL with a scowl on his face. _You couldn’t have mentioned this before?_

David just quirks an eyebrow at him and gestures for them to continue swimming, making their way closer to the shore. Hopefully the ice has broken up enough that they will be able to make their way to the surface without issues. If not, he’s hoping to _hell_ that his laser kilt pin will work—even after having been submerged in sub-zero water for an extended period of time. At the same time, he sends a quick message back to HQ to tell Extraction Team Alpha to use their location to determine the closest point for them to get the hell out of there. 

A couple minutes later, having received an affirmative response from operations support as well as location coordinates for their extraction point, David gestures to Galahad to once again get his attention. He then points and starts swimming in a slightly different direction, taking the shortest course to where they need to go. God _damn_ , does he love the Clansman neural network. _Hume is a fucking genius_. 

Regardless of Hume’s genius or how grateful he is to the man, however, David resolves that he has had quite enough of playing around in freezing water for one day, thank you kindly. Quite frankly, he can’t fucking wait to get out of here and into a scalding shower. 

_Soon enough._

*

**_Hotel Kämp, Helsinki Esplanadi. Later that evening._ **

Finally back at the hotel, David slams the door shut and rests against it for a beat. _What a fucking disastrous day._

He closes his eyes and sees he’s got 35 notifications in the communications tab of the Clansman network that he absolutely daren’t open, suspecting he’d find a string of insults from Hume—and possibly a termination letter co-signed by Robert and HR, too: 

_Dear Agent Wallace,_

_We would like to thank you for your service over the past eight years. However, your latest royal cock-up ultimately lead us to believe you aren’t the right fit for this organisation, after all. We wish you the best for your career going forward._

_Sincerely,_

_Clansman_

He immediately shakes off that thought, too cold and wet to start elaborating a series of plausible excuses for his—well, mostly _Galahad’s_ , really—appallingly catastrophic attempt at gathering intel, then proceeds to step out of his frozen wet clothes and get into the shower.

Twenty minutes later, David’s drying his hair and still fuming as he examines the giant bruises on his chest and face—as well as the general battered state he’s in—when a text flashes before his eyes.

_Hello, handsome. You alive, then?_

His face relaxes as he sends back, _Hey love. Barely. Time for a chat?_

 _For you, always_ , Julia shoots back, and then he immediately feels a call coming in, like calls in the Clansman neural network usually happen: the tip of his right index finger buzzes, and a tiny green light twinkles intermittently in the corner of his eye. _Video call, then. Very well. Not exactly dressed for it, but I’m sure she won’t mind. Never usually does._

He pinches his thumb and forefinger together to take the call, and hologram-Julia pops out in front of the bathroom door. She’s in her fitness clothes, her glasses and no make-up, and she’s possibly looking even more stunning than usual.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” David purrs fondly, sitting on the edge of the tub in the small hotel bathroom.

“Oh shut up, will you not,” Julia replies, appearing to walk to the sink and propping herself up to sit on it. She looks to be wet all over. “Jus’ been for a wee run, it’s pissing it down out there.” She gathers her long ginger hair between her hands and squeezes the moisture out of it, looking annoyed.

“Where are you again?”

“Thailand. I’m told it’s not monsoon season for at least two more months, and yet, fecking look at me.”

“As usual, my dear—you’re positively _dripping_ in sex appeal,” David retorts with a smirk, bad pun and all, feeling a tad lighter already.

“Very funny, Budd. You’re looking ravishing as well, by the way—if not a little battered. What’d the wee shite do this time?”

The mention of Galahad immediately gets David back in his original foul mood but, equally, the fact that Julia just correctly assumed his less-than-ideal state is Galahad’s fault fills him with a certain satisfaction. 

“Oh, Juls. He’s… _impossible_. Long story short, we seem tae have blown a wee Finnish town to bits, today—just because he couldn’t keep his fecking geggy shut for five bloody seconds.”

David proceeds to recount the events of the past few hours, getting progressively more worked up about Galahad and how fucking useless he is as he does so. It definitely does help to vent, though. Julia always somehow manages to make him feel better.

“Oh my God, an _umbrella_? They really are posh fuckers. Surprised he doesn’t walk around with a top hat and a monocle, too,” she says, almost an hour later, while David’s comfortably lying on his bed—still half-naked, only a towel wrapped around his privates, and considerably more relaxed. 

He’s let Julia talk him into pouring himself a drink, too: briefly contemplated busting out the fine Clansman 15-year from the hip flask, before thinking that maybe corrupting a potentially useful gadget wouldn’t be the best idea (he and Galahad have a lot to be sorry for already) and instead turning to the mini bar. The only whisky in there was the rankest label of Johnnie Walker, but David still ended up picking that out of the vast selection of atrocities available to him—some cheap Irish stuff, a few types of very recognisable Tennessee pish that he would not even allow himself to _think_ about, and some kind of Finnish vodka that he supposed would knock him out for two days straight.

“I know. I’m still not over the brolly either. However, I must admit—it did kind of save our arses a couple of times, today,” he ponders out loud, scrunching his face in mild disgust as he takes a sip of what shouldn’t be considered Scotch. It’s still going to his head, though. Big time, in fact, since he hasn’t had any food in, what, almost 24 hours now. _Great_.

Julia smiles wickedly at him over the rim of her mug, containing her own way more sensible Tuesday night drink. “Oh? Admitting that the English hunk and his silly toys have some merit, are we? Is this you going a bit _soft_ , Budd?”

“You are kindly invited to fuck off,” David says, making a point of flipping her off to punctuate his meaning, as he secretly considers the implication of that word used to describe Galahad.

David did, admittedly, have a bit of a moment the day Hume showed him Galahad’s picture and a collection of footage from his past missions. The latter almost systematically saw the man beat up and bloodied, bound and held at gunpoint, and yet, _every single time_ , the fucker was able to free himself and turn the situation around, slithering between obstacles like a snake and flying at foes like a bird of prey—and with that smirk David’s come to know fairly well permanently plastered on his face, too. Galahad simply looked like he didn’t give a toss about living or dying: he just seemed to care about the mission, the danger, the adrenaline rush and, going by what David’s sixth sense was telling him, didn’t mind getting a bit roughed up in the process, either. 

That ultimately turned into David testing that theory for himself, after Hume reported that Galahad had not shown up at the kilt shop at the agreed time and asked him to keep a lookout for any potential sneaky activity on the man’s part. David, ever the overachiever, went the extra mile: not only did he immediately spot the devious wee bastard trying to play clever at the distillery, but he also managed to satisfy his, ahem, _vision_ , great plan, you name it: he took up the excruciating burden of being the one doing the aforementioned roughing up on the pretty man with the sharp jawline and the shit-eating smirk. Landed a blow to his head, tied him up, and put a blindfold on him, too. He then spent a bunch of minutes fantasising about what could happen on a potential mission he and Galahad would go on together. Perhaps after a day kind of like today—spent getting shot at and running away from blood-thirsty bad guys, down to the wire, almost dying, then maybe reconvening in a hotel room and…

But, ultimately, no. The man’s too much of an incompetent sack of shite for David to consider him a viable target on which to use his frankly appallingly underused seduction skills. However _hunky_ he might be.

“He is useless, Juls. Easy on the eye, aye,” he adds, as he feels Julia is about to double down on her ribbing, “but useless. If ye don’ believe me yet, have another example.” 

Julia raises her tea mug at him as if to say, _be my guest_. David swirls the remains of the abhorrent excuse for whisky in his glass and he downs them in one go. “Ugh, that was absolutely foul. Anyways, we were in Sweden the other day, right? Some hospital in the arse-crack of nowhere that Hume singled out as one of the most hit. I’d managed to get myself into a nurse’s uniform, was in the middle of showing off my Swedish…”

“...ah, but of course. Uppsala, 2013. How long were you fucking that prince, again?”

“Six months. I still miss him, sometimes. Not the bloody point, though—damn you, constantly making me lose my thread. I’m gunnae spank ye, next time I see you.”

“I’d _really_ like tae see you try, hot shot,” Julia retorts, raising an eyebrow at him. “But anyways, sorry. Sweden. Nurse uniform. _Peacocking_. Do go on.”

“Very kind of you. As I was saying, I was basically undercover already: introduced myself as a replacement for the guy who usually helps out with autopsies, met the head coroner and everything. I was just following him to the morgue when our favourite giant eejit pops up out of nowhere and claims—in perfect Swedish, by the way, must investigate that—that he’s some kind of health and safety inspector, and that he’s been tipped off that the preservation of corpses isn’t done according to regulations, and would the coroner please show him to the morgue so he can assess that for himself.”

“Alright, alright, sorry, love,” Julia interjects, looking wildly amused. “Two things, here. One, why in the absolute _fuck_ didnae you two glaikits agree on a common plan? No, you can answer that later,” she says, interrupting David before he can quip back, leaving him with his mouth agape and his breath already drawn in preparation to launch onto an elaborate explanation. “First, hear my second question: did ye _really_ no’ ken that the man was involved with the Swedish Crown Princess for, like, two years, I’d say?”

 _What the fuck. Seriously?_ David proceeds to blush and shake his head. “I had no fecking clue.”

“Mate, I swear to God. They got _married_ , and everything. _Elton John_ was there. It was _televised_. Princess Tilde and Gary Unwin?”

 _Gary_. “He sure doesnae look like a Gary.”

“Cannae say ye’re wrong there. Also, cannae _believe_ I’m the one breaking this news to you, to be honest—but then again you do seem tae be living on the Moon, as far as _mundanity_ is concerned.”

“I…”

“...don’ own a TV, yes, I know. You still do enjoy binge-watching _Bakeoff_ reruns when you crash at mine, and sitting down in front of Pixar films with yer weans, though, don’ ye. All in all, David Budd, I reckon ye’re a bit of a giant hypocrite,” she interrupts him. “But I suppose you’re also very pretty _and_ my closest friend, so we’ll let that slide for now,” she finishes, winking at him. “Now, pray, tell me about this Swedish hospital débacle.”

David deliberately decides to ignore her comments, the guilt in the pit of his stomach at the thought of how long it’s been since he’s last seen his kids, and the nagging embarrassment prickling the apples of his cheeks in favour of continuing to slander Galahad— _Gary_ , apparently—because it’s easy, and it makes him feel good. 

“Yeah, right. Well, long story short is that the coroner let us know they had been inspected for the exact same reason only two days before, and he demanded that Galahad’s supposed superiors were called to check whether a second inquiry really was needed so soon. The whole thing turned into us quietly making our way out through the A&E before everyone in the hospital realised we were infiltrating areas normally not open to the general public, and also that we were incidentally guilty of identity theft.”

“Jesus Christ, David. They can’t make one functioning agent out of the two of you, honestly.”

“Hey, _hey_ ,” David protests, irritably, clutching his empty glass, “why are ye pinning it on me, as well? It was all bloody Galahad and his daft inspector backstory!”

“Maybe it was, yes. Although, love, going back to my first point: you two really should’ve coordinated before going in there.”

David makes a mock-outraged face. “Y’know, Juls: as a friend and esteemed colleague, having worked with me for years and just generally, I assume, loving the crap out of me, ye’re supposed tae just blindly back me up and tell me I’m right all the time, not drop devastating truth bombs on me—and after the day I’ve had, no less! You truly are a heartless monster,” David says, dramatically, as he runs a hand through his hair and subtly flexes his bicep at her.

“And you’re a 33-year-old _child_ ,” she snaps back, without even blinking. “Granted, that London boy you’re parading around is no better—but David, ye really need tae get yer shit together, love. I want you back in one piece, if at all possible.”

“Worried? Missing me a bit, are ye?” he teases Julia, settling further into the mound of cushions underneath and all around him and purposely biting his lip.

Julia looks absolutely unflapped. “Oh, Budd. Every day that goes by without seeing you is a day wasted, really,” she sighs, melodramatic and slightly sardonic. “Although this,” she adds, pointing at David’s half naked body—his crotch, really—and making air circles with her index finger to reiterate her meaning, “is _definitely_ not happening again. You’re an incredibly good shag, but I deal with enough of yer shite on the daily. Having you fall in love with me would only add to the pile, believe me.”

David rolls his eyes and sighs in defeat, although by this point it really is just a game. Besides, he does agree with Julia: one drunken hookup was enough for a lifetime. He just likes being desired, he supposes. 

“Get off your high horse, missy,” he claps back, grinning mischievously.

“In yer dreams, stunner. Which reminds me—you really should try and get some kip, love.”

“You’re probably right about that. Who in the buggery hell kens what’s in store fer me in the next coupla days, eh?”

“Oh I think I might have an inkling,” Julia replies, looking concerned. “I had a call with Hume and the Chief before my run, and they were, um… Less than pleased, let’s say. Good luck with that, love.”

Ah, _fuck_. Of course. “Well, in that case, my dear Moray: it’s been nice knowing you, working with you—and getting in yer pants that one time, too,” David solemnly states, saluting Julia and winking at her. 

“Likewise, Wallace. You were the absolute best.”

“Best agent or best shag?”

“ _Definitely_ best agent. G’night, you ridiculous man.”

“Night, Juls.”

*

“Say that again. Louder, this time,” David says, tugging on Galahad’s hair a tad harder still to have him meet his eyes. Light green drowned by the black of his pupils, glazed with tears. _He really is too pretty for words. Especially when he’s on his knees._

“I’m s- _sorry_ , Wallace. I fucked up. I deserve this,” he lets out, a tad louder but sounding extremely strangled. 

“Mmh, very good,” David replies, running a thumb over the man’s reddened left cheek and subsequently circling his wet mouth with it. “You do, Galahad. You do deserve this.” _But I think you also need it. You need to be put in your place. You love it, don’t you?_

Galahad doesn’t stop looking into David’s eyes as he closes those luscious lips around his thumb, sucking on it as if—

“Fucking look at you, eh? You wee slut. You did it on purpose, didn’t you? To have me raging at you, tie you up and get you on yer knees.”

Galahad flutters his eyelashes in response, nodding his pretty head yes while still licking around David’s thumb like he wants to prove a point. 

David looks at him for a while, enthralled, but then he retracts his thumb, eager to put that lovely tongue to work on something more conspicuous. His thumb makes an obscene popping sound as it comes out of Galahad’s mouth—and that, that _noise_ , momentarily threatens to make him lose control. “That’s quite enough of this, I reckon.”

“No, no, please, I… I need to be good now, I need to… Please, _sir_ , let me do it. Give it to me, I deserve it. Been so bad. Didn’t listen. _Please_.”

 _Fucking Christ._ Absolutely gagging for it, and David’s absolutely bloody done for. David presently decides he really wants to tease Galahad a bit more, now he knows how enticing the sound of begging and the word _sir_ are, coming from his mouth.

“ _What_ exactly do you want? Use your words. You never normally need any encouragement to do it. Let me hear just how filthy ye are, gorgeous.”

And he really is gorgeous. Naked, bound, on his knees and wearing a black leather collar. David could definitely keep him like this forever.

“I… I want you to hit me again, and I want your cock in my mouth, and I want you to fuck me into the carpet so hard our knees will bleed,” he replies, all of his familiar infuriating confidence back in place and still managing to make David’s knees buckle. The _thought_ of all that. “ _Sir_ ,” Galahad adds, as an afterthought, biting down hard on his lower lip, looking and sounding like a man who does this for a living.

David ends up fucking the cheek out of Galahad all night long. Puts a blindfold on him, spanks him until he’s crying out in pain but still begging for more, feeds him his cock and tangles both hands in his hair and fucks his face until he’s a mess of spit and tears, flips him over and nails him to the hotel room floor until he's sobbing from it, David's cock buried deep inside him, filling him to the brim.

When David is done, he just leaves Galahad there—breathing heavily on the floor, come slowly trickling out of him, wrists still tied behind his back and a giddy smile plastered on his face (likely the result of the two? three? orgasms he's had), whispering a sweet string of _thank you_ ’s—and goes to retrieve his phone from his nightstand, as the fucking thing will just _not_ stop going off and doing his bloody head in.

When David finally wakes up, he realises his actual phone in actual real life really has been actually buzzing away, desperately trying to get his attention; but, most importantly, he comes to the tragic conclusion that the wonderful kinky scene that just felt so _incredibly_ life-like was just a dream, after all—and that his body seems to have responded consequently.

It’s in an absolutely foul mood and with a raging hard-on, therefore, that he picks up his stupid phone as it starts ringing for the millionth time.

“Hello?”

“Fucking hell, _finally_ ,” says a familiar voice. Incidentally, also the last one David and his painful boner wanted to hear, at present.

“What is it, Galahad?” he replies, momentarily considering to put on hold the whole palming-himself-through-his-boxers action he’s got going on, but ultimately deciding against it.

“Been calling you for half an hour. Breakfast’s over soon, and then we need to fuck off back to the airport. Stop wanking and get a bloody move on, Wallace,” Galahad snaps, sounding severe and mildly annoyed. _If only he knew how fucking spot on he is_ , David thinks, thrusting more into his hand and throwing his head back into his pillow.

“Fuck breakfast. Meet you downstairs for checkout at 10,” he replied, as composed as he can muster while he closes his eyes and instantly finds himself back inside his dream.

He barely hears Galahad utter a snappy “And good morning to you too, dickhead,” before he closes the call and proceeds to crawl back to Galahad on the floor of his dream hotel room, spread his cheeks and bury his tongue into that spent hole. After working himself into the quickest and most intense orgasm he's had in a good while, David regretfully has to admit that fantasising about ravishing his infuriating but beautiful colleague turns out to be a very effective way of taking care of very urgent matters at hand. 

_Guess I'd better keep that one in mind._

*

**_MacGregor and MacDuff Kiltmakers, Bath Street, Glasgow. The next day._ **

David and Galahad have been standing in front of the Briefing Room at MacGregor and MacDuff’s, arguing about who will be knocking on the door and therefore step in first, for five whole minutes. 

Too busy composing an elaborate symphony of _it’s your fault we’re in this fucking mess in the first place_ , _I was just trying to do the right thing, bloody sue me_ , _what the fuck are we going to tell them now_ , and _I have no clue, bruv, they’re_ your _bosses_ , they barely even notice the door swinging open, seemingly of its own volition, and revealing the interior of the room. It appears to be semi-dark, only a few lights turned on despite the looming sunset hour. 

Sat at the table, Robert looks so angry he’s almost pulsating with it, but weirdly, for once, he isn’t David’s primary source of concern: no, the way _Hume_ is glaring at the pair of them right now is one of the most terrifying spectacles he’s ever had the misfortune to attend. David hopes to God that Robert hasn’t given the man full clearance to go berserk on them, but he inevitably finds that a tiny voice inside his head is whispering the exact opposite. _He’s going to tear us to shreds, isn’t he?_

“Please come in, Agents,” Hume says, coolly, holding the door open for David and Galahad to make their way inside. They do, because what choice do they have, really. They walk along one of the sides of the table and sheepishly sit down, both trying to make themselves as small as possible in their chairs. Personally, David knows he would be very partial for the earth to swallow him, thank you very much, especially because—

_Slam._

Hume violently pushes the door shut with his foot, walks back towards the table, splays his hands over the thick cherry wood, fixes David and Galahad with a furious glance, and starts talking.

“Never, in my long years of service,” he starts, surprisingly calm and composed, “have I _ever_ come across anyone like you two.”

“To be fair, guv,” Galahad somehow has the nerve to retort, “you don’t look to be much older than us. How _long_ could you have possibly been working?” 

David turns his head slightly to look at the daredevil arse sitting on his right, and he’s honestly not sure whether to be outraged, commending, or even a little aroused: no-one in Clansman would ever have _dared_ trying to get a word in during one of Hume’s infamous dressing downs. _You’re really out of your depth, here, English. Hume has been in the biz since he was fifteen_ , David thinks, as he once again finds himself wishing he could communicate with Galahad in the civilised Clansman way. 

Hume slams both of his fists on the table and proceeds to lose his original severe aplomb completely.

“Silence!” he shouts, now pointing a finger at Eggsy. “How _dare_ you. You cheeky little shit. Merlin had warned me about you, and I didn’t want to believe him.”

David feels a rush of boldness—possibly coming from Galahad’s reckless interruption, or maybe from Hume’s assessment of the man—and decides, against his best instinct, to try his luck as well.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have brought him on board in the first place, boss,” he delivers, regretting every single sound coming out of his mouth as he observes Hume’s face distort even more. 

_Well, David, you’ve done it. You’ve awakened the Hulk inside this small North-Eastern man. Now good luck dealing with him, mate._

“You shut the fuck up as well, Wallace, you _utter cock_ ,” Hume roars, hands now gripping the back of the chair in front of him so hard that his knuckles are white. He looks between David and Galahad, brow furrowed and hard, intimidating, gaze—like he’s somehow trying to make sense of them. “You... _twats_ ,” he curses again, loud and unmerciful. “You absolute _morons_. I don’t even know where to start with you two.” 

David hears Galahad draw in a sharp breath, then, as if he was about to say something else. David quickly lands a sideways blow on his shin with the side of his foot. _You’re not going to make this worse for us, you fucker._ Galahad whines in protest, but thankfully gets the message.

“That was a wise decision, Wallace,” Robert throws in, out of the blue, in that deep, dangerous voice of his. David nods at him. “I would suggest you keep yer mouth shut until you’re told you’re allowed tae speak, Agent Galahad. For your own sake.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” Galahad immediately replies, bending over a little to massage his leg and blushing furiously. _Oh, look, humility. Didn’t think he was capable of it._

“You both acted like a couple of petulant children fighting in a playground. I’ve literally never seen anything like it. But please, you don’t need to take my word for it: take a look for yourselves,” Hume says, with false courtesy, moving to the side and tapping on his right temple as he switches the lights off completely. 

Moments later, a holographic re-enactment of their exploits appears in front of them. Obviously taken from David’s feed, the reel features the salient moments of his and Galahad’s botched recon mission, that play in front of their eyes for what feels like a couple of lifetimes.

When the playback is over, Hume turns the lights back on and just stands against the wall with his arms crossed and a stern look on his face.

“Can either of you tell me what went wrong, there?” he asks, in what David recognises as his best attempt at a pedagogic tone. 

David, stupidly, raises his hand. _This really feels like being back in primary school, alright._

Hume rolls his eyes dramatically. “Yes, Wallace?”

“Galahad opened his big fat mouth at the wrong time, subsequently unleashing the fury of a dozen vikings armed to the teeth and getting a small Finnish town destroyed?” he tries, stubbornly continuing to lie to himself and everyone around him. 

Galahad returns the favour by elbowing David in the ribs, making him wheeze in pain. 

“See?” David whines to Hume, theatrically gesturing towards Galahad. “He has no words to defend himself.”

“Oh fuck off, Wallace, you self-righteous prick…” Galahad sasses, but is immediately cut off by Hume.

“You just _shut up_ , the pair of youse. I am sick and tired of you acting like little gits. You’re grown men. _Professionals_ , supposedly. You’re the best agents both Clansman and Kingsman have to offer—and yet, _look_ at you, bickering like hot-headed youths,” he says, rubbing his face with both hands, ostensibly discouraged. “No, Wallace: Galahad interrupting an extortion attempt is _not_ what went wrong there,” he says to David disapprovingly. Then, he turns to Galahad. “Nor is, by the way, that instance at the hospital in Sweden that I know for a fact kept Merlin up for a whole night, last week. The problem, fellas, is that you’re each doing your own thing and completely overlooking the most important element of all.”

Hume pauses, obviously hopeful that at least one of them will get the drift. David promptly decides that he’s tired of being shouted at, so he quickly says “Teamwork” at the same time as Galahad does. He turns to look at the man in slight bewilderment, simultaneously taking in a slow clap coming from Robert’s end of the table.

“Well,” the Chief says, appreciatively. “That’s a start, I suppose, eh?”

“Precisely, lads,” Hume confirms, his face softening a bit. “ _Teamwork_. And since you don’t seem to be able to work that one out for yourselves, Robert and I agreed on a contingency plan to avoid having this entire mission, quite literally, go up in smoke.” He blinks once, and the hologram screen pops back out of nowhere. Lists appear before their eyes, as well as several photos of a modern-looking apartment. “New tasks for youse, and a taste of your new _joint_ living quarters. Wallace, you can access the details via…” he abruptly silences himself. 

David looks at Robert, who’s glowering at Hume. _We’d agreed we wouldn’t talk about the neural network. Glad that Galahad and I are not the only ones messing things up, today._

“...your contacts,” Hume promptly saves face, seemingly just remembering the agreed upon cover story and breathing a very subtle sigh of relief. “Both of you have all the relevant details also available to you on your tablets, although, for your convenience, Galahad, I took the liberty of asking Merlin for access to your glasses—so you can find everything there, too, if you prefer.”

 _Well done, mate_ , David thinks, as he discreetly rests an elbow on the table and taps on his left temple for a little avant-goût of the plethora of information available via the network. _Christ, trust exercises? Are they fucking serious?_

“Ta, boss,” Galahad replies, nodding at Hume and Robert in turn. “Swear down, we won’t disappoint you again.”

“You’d _better_ not,” Robert says. “Otherwise we’ll be forced tae pull you both from the case, send ye back to London and hope and pray for Comyn and Soules tae get back on their feet before the world goes to absolute _shite_.”

“That won’t be necessary, Chief,” David interjects, seriously. “Agent Galahad and I will do our absolute best.”

“Make you proud, and all that,” Galahad adds, in a tone that indicates that he’s mostly talking to himself than to the rest of the room. 

“Well, lads, that’s the spirit,” Hume says, seemingly already back to his usual, cheerful self. “You can find the codes to access the building and your new shared apartment in the file labelled “Hillhead”. Now, fuck off, both of you. Next time we reconvene, you’d better have become best friends,” he teases, with a half smile and an eloquent eyebrow raise.

“Yes, sir,” David and Galahad say, once again at the same time.

 _How hard can it be, after all?_ David thinks to himself as he raises from his seat and makes his way towards Hume and the door, with Galahad in tow. _I just have to live with an immature nitwit for a couple of weeks and pretend I like him. Easy. Been in worse situations._

As he crosses Hume’s gaze, David realises he must have thought a bit too loud—as in, he completely forgot to untether from the network, effectively displaying his inner musings for everyone connected. 

“For the love of God, David: _behave_ ,” Hume tells him telepathically, in a tone that’s halfway between reprimanding and anxious. “I’m just trying to help you, mate.”

David nods at him, apologetic. “Really sorry, Andrew. I promise we’ll step up our game. _I’ll_ be better,” he adds, finally shouldering some of the blame. “We won’t fuck this up.”

Andrew smiles and winks at both David and Galahad. “Good luck, boys. I’m sure you’ll be needing it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering:  
> \- Yes, we need the big action scene onscreen A S A P  
> \- Yes, we really went there with the Prince Carl honeypot content (moderately proud to report that he's a real-life person, and he's also [really, really hot](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/54/0a/1e/540a1e53ad5aa782babd4e84ac649349.jpg))  
> \- Yes, David's dream is filthy as fuck. And we massively enjoyed bringing it to you.  
> \- Yes, yes, and _YES_ , angry smol beby Hume is still our favourite side-character ever.
> 
> As per, if you enjoyed this, consider leaving us your thoughts below (our kingdom for a comment blablabla). We love you all, and we'll be back with more David and even more Idiots To Lovers(TM) next week.
> 
> Take care and see you soon!
> 
> Love,
> 
> M and C xx


	6. V. Odi et Amo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ōdī et amō. Quārē id faciam fortasse requīris.  
>  Nesciō, sed fierī sentiō et excrucior.
> 
> _I hate and I love. Why I do this, perhaps you ask._  
>  _I know not, but I feel it happening and I am tortured._
> 
> \- Catullus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello lovely folks! It's Tuesday again and we're back to our story, and back to dealing with these gorgeous idiots.
> 
> This week will be a giant rollercoaster, so please brace yourselves. We will see a couple of familiar faces come back ( **Stewart** and **Lamberton** from the pub night in chapter 3) and, of course, our fan favourite **Hume** , who's desperately trying to make this marriage work.
> 
> As per, here is the **[the playlist for this chapter](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4hkYqY5YuA99VOnI9NUxhF?si=sSWe9X30S_ui_Jm4-D6aSw)**.
> 
> And now please enjoy David and Eggsy's _couples' therapy_ chapter!

_**V. Odi et Amo** _

**_Finnieston, Glasgow. Early April._ **

David pointedly ignores the woman—he refuses to call her a _doctor_ —who has been monologuing for the last twenty minutes, blathering on about the importance of teamwork and communication and _trust_ under the auspices of leading their therapy session _._ As if these were simple concepts for two _spies_ who, quite frankly, didn’t really have any of these reflexes when working together and, purely based on the circumstances of their partnership, seemed unlikely to develop any in a hurry. 

David continues to deliberately disregard the words flowing around him and, instead, elects to stare out the window at the sheets of rain pounding at the panes. While he does so, he stretches his neck and adjusts his body slightly in his seat; he and Galahad have been allotted a tiny settee across from their therapist, on which they are sitting about as far away as possible from each other, staunchly avoiding each other's gaze. 

_Perfect start to this mince alright,_ David muses to himself. He has been to an untold number of therapy sessions over the years—for reasons stretching from trauma and loss to marriage counselling—and he can already tell that this particular one is part one of an ill-fated enterprise. _God bless this woman for trying, though._

“...find a way of making this partnership work,” she finishes her speech with a pleased smile at the two of them.

Galahad’s body language is closed-off, defensive, and he makes no eye contact with either of the other occupants of the room. Not that David is trying to engage with him in the slightest, mind. Quite frankly, if either of them actually does open his mouth, they’re liable to end up in _yet another_ all-out row, which would certainly not help their case in front of the woman sent to evaluate them. And yet, she just _keeps pushing_.

“Now, Agent Wallace,” Dr. Turnbull begins, focusing her attention on him with an awful put-upon smile. “It seems that many of your _difficult interactions_ with Agent Galahad stem from lack of communication at the decision-making stage during missions. I have notes here from Hume mentioning a recent op in Finland. Is there something that happened there that you wish to speak about?” she leads, trailing off expectantly.

David huffs in annoyance. _Talk about beating a dead horse_. “Seems we’ve done nothing but talk about it since that fecking shitshow went down. In fact, since Galahad botched that stupid Mikkeli recon, it’s the only thing anyone _ever_ seems to want to talk about, and I had nothing to do with it!”

Galahad makes an aborted sound in the back of his throat, leaning forward in his seat, almost as if he was going to say something and then stopped himself—surely remembering their dire warnings from Robert and Hume on the conditions of their continued active mission status. 

“Now, Wallace,” Not-A-Doctor soothes in a patronising tone. “Please remember that this is a safe space for you both, and that sort of lashing out will not be tolerated. Galahad and I are here to listen and try to work through the issues that you are both facing when it comes to your communication and teamwork. There is absolutely nothing to be gained from attacking each other.” She pauses and once more smiles that vacant smile at the both of them. “So let’s try this again. What can you tell me about your actions that day that might have led to the negative outcome that occurred in Finland?”

David just sighs in frustration. _Fucking therapists,_ he thinks to himself. _Why don’t they ever ask the right questions?_ It is quite obvious to _him_ that they might be best served by actually talking about the root of why their relationship went sour before it even started—but far be it from him to do this woman’s job for her. He closes his eyes briefly before steeling himself to reply. _Have to say something, else Hume may never unlock the goddamn door._

A whole excruciating hour later, Hume mercifully _does_ unlock the goddamn door, and they’re finally allowed to make their way out of Turnbull’s office.

“Well that was a fucking waste of time,” David quietly mutters under his breath, unable to help himself. Galahad meets his gaze and huffs an almost-chuckle of agreement. _Well that’s a first, I suppose_. _We can agree on that, at least._

Maybe this will get better. 

_Or maybe it will get worse._

*

**_Shared Clansman flat, Hillhead, Glasgow. One week later._ **

As he rolls out of bed and into a cold shower at a frankly idiotic hour for a Saturday morning, the first thing David notices is that the fuck-off fancy Christmas limited edition body wash that smells like oud, has gold flakes, and is now _absolutely impossible_ to find anywhere (because it’s actually from two years ago, _fucking hell_ ) is running out at a dramatically fast pace. The cheap one that is only just faintly almond-scented (the one from Boots that Galahad swore was his favourite when they went out shopping for essentials during the first week of their forced cohabitation), however, is just lying on the shower shelf, almost full and definitely long forgotten. _Been nice if he’d asked, at least_.

And yet somehow, against his best instincts, David resolves to let that slide. He’s been to enough useless therapy sessions—the last one not even a week ago, actually—during which grey, bespeckled men in cardigans and boring-looking women in suits have patronised him into accepting that he has an anger management problem to come to the realisation that you really _do_ have to choose your battles, sometimes. So, he takes a deep breath, inhaling the comforting scent of the last drops of his absolute favourite shower gel, and makes the executive decision _not_ to get into a screaming match with Galahad about personal care products at bloody five in the bloody AM.

_Well done, David. You deserve a treat, buddy._

And he does—he really, _really_ does. Which is why he’s now going to dry and style his hair even if he’s not planning on going anywhere, put on one of his beloved old army T-shirts that make him feel like a real hard man, make coffee, and spend the whole day binge-watching _Drag Race_. (Yeah, alright, he _might_ be starting to see the point of actually owning a TV, after having had one on hand for a couple of weeks. Not that he’d ever admit it to Julia, of course. Or to anyone else, for that matter.)

He steps out of the bathroom completely starkers—because what the hell, this is supposed to be _home_ , after all—and, as he covers the distance of the short corridor that separates him from his bedroom, not really focusing on anything but the direction he’s aiming for, he hears a gasp. Immediately after, the door opposite his, which he hadn’t noticed was open a crack, quickly closes with a gentle thud.

 _Ah. Shite. Might’ve just flashed a colleague._

Oh, well. Nothing Galahad hasn’t seen before. _Although nothing quite this_ , the narcissist inside David whispers softly to him as he gets back into his bedroom and settles in front of the full length mirror in his closet, assessing his naked body. _Not bad. Not bad at all._

He rummages into a drawer for a pair of clean boxers, socks, and some trackies, then looks to retrieve one of said army T-shirts from the closet, and realises they’re not there. 

They are. _Not_. There.

_What has the wee fucker done with them, then?_

_No, David. Breathe, remember?_ It’s not necessarily Galahad stealing his clothes. They’re probably just in the wash. David has been on quite a few runs, lately, after all. That must be it, yeah. It’s all good. He will probably settle for one of those ridiculous Egyptian cotton tees from All Saints that Julia insists look _gorgeous_ on him. Or actually, what the fuck: going shirtless is just as good. Can’t reasonably be walking around the flat fully in the scud—but shirtless is acceptable.

David makes his way to the kitchen half-naked and barefoot, reading through a bunch of nonsense from Julia’s latest Friday night antics in Bangkok and chuckling to himself while he turns on the Nespresso machine and waits for the water to heat up. He picks a capsule at random from the batch that Galahad has labelled as “too strong for me” and brews a double espresso. He then glances at the milk frother sitting next to the machine, remembers that he’s got that fecking posh Oatly Barista milk just sitting in the fridge, and suddenly finds himself positively _captivated_ by the idea of making a cappuccino. 

As he opens the fridge and picks up the overpriced shite he’s _forced_ to drink instead of regular milk—because his body, apparently, decided to stop digesting lactose on the day he turned 25—he finds the thing is astonishingly, dramatically, and infuriatingly _empty_ , whereas the gallon of semi-skimmed, bowel-wrecking cow’s milk that Galahad, once again, _swore_ was his preferred choice, just lies there, looking at David almost mockingly from the fridge door compartment.

“Fucking _Christ_ , I swear I’m gunnae kill him in his sleep one of these days,” he whispers to himself, trembling with irritation, still undecided on whether this might just be the right moment to lose it.

 _No, no, no, come on, David. Doing really well, remember? Just breathe. Br_ —

“Galahad!” he bellows, slamming the fridge door closed and banging his fist over it. “I know you’re awake! Get yer arse in here, _immediately_.”

Ten seconds later sees Galahad’s door timidly swing open and the man’s toned figure lean against the frame. He has a sleepy look on his face, but the yawn David’s just witnessed is entirely staged. Most importantly, though, Galahad seems to be wearing a pair of Y-fronts that are a touch too skimpy to be deemed _decent_ , and, as a top, one of David’s prized army T-shirts.

“What is it, Wally?” Galahad asks, raising an inquiring eyebrow at him and smirking a tad.

“You—” David starts, trying to gather the right words and his wits, while failing miserably at keeping his focus on Galahad’s face. There is just _so much_ of him to see, and, fuck, David’s staring, quickly, _something, say something_ , “—you finished the oat milk,” he delivers, pathetically, in a single breath.

Galahad, who has three hundred percent just caught him looking, just shrugs. “Sorry, mate. Get you some more in the morning, eh?”

“It _is_ the morning, Galahad.”

“Sure it is. In five to six hours. Night, Wally.”

“...night, Galahad.”

*

**_Glenglassaugh Distillery, Aberdeenshire. A few days later. Mid-April._ **

Also included in their ongoing mandated _couples’ therapy_ are so-called ‘training days’, during which, contrary to what the name would suggest, there isn’t a whole lot of actual _training_ happening. 

It was discovered early on that sending David and Galahad to the gym together would lead to the less than desirable outcome of the two of them simply splitting up and working out on their own, completely ignoring each other for the hour or more that they were asked to be there. 

After that, the one (disastrous) attempt at sending them to a private yoga class had ended in the poor instructor leaving in tears and quitting the profession. It certainly hadn’t been David’s intention to driving the man to a mental breakdown, but it had been difficult to concentrate on his breathing and keeping a proper posture with his so-called partner’s shapely rear right in front of him, prominently on display and framed ever so nicely in the fitted yoga leggings that both he and David had been oh so thoughtfully provided. It had been easier to snark and pick a fight with Galahad than to try to focus his attention anywhere else. _Truly a return to form, from both of us._

Today, he and Galahad have been called to present themselves in one of the observation suites at the distillery. Much like the therapist’s office, it’s comfortably decorated and quite obviously fitted with a discrete two-way mirror and all manner of surveillance equipment. 

When they get there, David is quite baffled to see not one, but two men standing in the middle of the room. One, he was expecting—Hume has been overseeing the majority of their teamwork-punishment, after all. The other he sort of recognises, but is less familiar—wait, is it...?

“Merlin?” Galahad exclaims incredulously. “What are you doing here, guv?”

Merlin scoffs. “At this point, lad, I had no other choice _but_ to be here. Inter-agency cooperation is a bee in Arthur’s bonnet at the moment, and I was sent to ensure that we delivered on our commitment.”

Galahad blushes beet red. “I’m not trying to make trouble, sir. I just—”

“We’ve had discussions about that chip before, son. Just keep your head cool and I’m sure everything will be fine.” Merlin pauses a beat too long before turning away and reaching behind him for something that has been left propped up against the wall, just out of David’s eyesight. “Oh, Galahad, I took the liberty of bringing you a new umbrella, as yours is now at the bottom of a Finnish lake. Arthur was… _concerned_ that you might be without.”

David rolls his eyes internally thinking about the fucking umbrella and wishing that they could have left it well enough alone where it belonged, at the bottom of the lake. However, he is suddenly, inexplicably distracted by Galahad’s face, which previously has been impassive and slightly downtrodden. He can’t help but notice it blooming into something completely different: almost an incandescent happiness and satisfaction, which begins to glow from his face and eyes. _He looks quite handsome when he’s not scowling,_ David thinks absently to himself while trying to puzzle out the reason for the change _._ He continues to listen carefully to the continued exchange between quartermaster and agent.

“Thank you Merlin,” Galahad says, smiling brightly and reaching for the umbrella.

“Sorry lad,” Merlin replies, keeping the black umbrella closed in his fist. “I’ll be keeping this with me until you’re done with your training exercises for the day. Wouldn’t want you to be tempted to use it.” 

Galahad sighs in exasperation and hunches back, a frown once again settling across his handsome features and causing a crease to form between his brows. 

Merlin, his face completely impassive, steps forwards and leans to whisper in Galahad’s ear, his hand that had once been in his pocket reaching forward to hand him something— _a small white square of fabric, a handkerchief?_ David is slightly confused. Galahad, face brightening once again, closes his hand tightly around the scrap of white and nods, tucking it into his own trouser pocket and conspicuously leaving his hand there pressed against it before stepping away from Merlin, almost studiously ignoring the man. 

_Now wasn’t this an interesting, if not incredibly confusing conversation,_ David thinks to himself as they all settle into the room, finding seats.

“Alright then, agents. Let’s get started,” Hume announces to the room, diverting all attention back to him. “Here’s what’s happening today. We are assigning you a trust exercise called Winner/Loser, which is designed to get you to open up and trust each other by sharing important stories from your past.” 

Merlin then takes over. “Essentially, the purpose of this exercise is to have you empathise with each other. You will each share a negative story from your past—either work-related or personal—and then you will start to work through the positives that have stemmed from it. It could be a lesson learned, or even just something you’re proud of.” He looks them both square in the eye, ensuring their understanding and acquiescence. “Once you are done with your retelling, your partner will then also provide their point of view on the positives that can be taken from your story. Then, you will switch. Understood?”

They nod, giving each other a bit of a side-eye, obviously both unsure of how seriously the other will be planning to take this exercise. For his part, David is at a bit of a loss, really: so much of what he deems his past failures is _oh-so-extremely_ classified—how is he supposed to get around that?

“You two will be alone in this room for the duration of the exercise, but we will, of course, be observing from outside, to evaluate your performance. We are also here if anything goes wrong, so please do not feel as if you are trapped in this room,” Hume assures them with a kind smile. “We know this will be a difficult exercise, so we will be keeping a close eye.”

Merlin nods perfunctorily and continues. “So, unless there are any questions, we will leave you here to get started. Best of luck, gentlemen.”

They exit the room quickly, leaving David and Galahad, once again, alone together. They stare at each other awkwardly for what feels like the millionth time since this whole thing started. _When will this ever not be awkward?_

“Well, Wally,” Galahad prompts. “Dunno about you, but I kinda feel like a fish in a fucking tank.” 

“Aye,” David is forced to agree. “Sounds about right. Would you like to start, Galahad?”

David notices Galahad seems to be positively squirming in his seat. He really can’t seem to find a comfortable position: he shifts around continuously, crosses and uncrosses his ankles, and nervously fidgets. He’s making David very anxious indeed, and that is admittedly not ideal in any circumstance, really, but especially not now that they’re supposedly about to swap secrets and—how’d the adults put it again? _Empathise_ with each other.

“Yeah, don’t mind. It’s actually about that, by the way.”

“About what? Havnae said anything yet,” David replies, confused.

“ _That_ ,” Galahad insists. “What you just called me. My codename. Can’t be talkin’ about this thing I’m thinking of sharing without you knowing me a little better, at least.”

“Want to tell me about your troubled childhood?” David retorts, snappier than he would have liked. He immediately gets flooded with dread, because he realises he’s just been—yeah, _fuck_ , look at Galahad’s face—unnecessarily tactless. _He_ is _going to tell me about his troubled childhood, isn’t he?_

“My _name_ , Wallace. I wanna tell you my name,” Galahad replies, suddenly a lot more rigid but not entirely flapped by the gratuitous and admittedly quite mean dig that David has just lain on him.

 _I’m such a knobhead, sometimes_ , David thinks to himself, promptly resolving to _really_ try, for once, to make this work. To do his best not to purposefully hurt this man, who, to his credit, actually seems to be doing his best.

“I’m sorry. Didnae mean…”

“It’s alright,” Galahad says, dismissively, with a small smile. “Okay, then. Here goes. My name—my _real_ name is…”

“Gary,” David interrupts, in a tone that he doesn’t recognise. It’s halfway between the arrogant know-it-all he’s been forced to pose as and something in the vicinity of _endearing_. Not quite sure on which side to lean on, yet.

Galahad— _Gary_ ’s eyes widen in surprise. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s right,” he replies, in a feeble, bewildered voice. “Glad to know that Merlin’s absolutely ace at protecting this bloody masquerade. _Anonymity_ , my big fat arse,” he scoffs, suddenly back to cocky, giving the two-way mirror the side-eye.

David smiles and shakes his head. “Nah, mate. Just some googling did it, really. You’re no’ _exactly_ hard to spot, what with the whole…”

“Oh, silly me—you mean the _royal wedding_ , don’t ya?” Gary interrupts him and chuckles, bending over so his elbows rest on his bent knees and burying his face in his hands. “You’d be delighted to know that the whole of Kingsman still takes the piss on the daily about that one.”

“And why would I be delighted about that?” David replies, before he has the time to switch his obnoxious character back on.

That shuts Gal— _Gary_ right up, for a good five seconds. “I… I dunno. Thought you hated me, or summat.”

“I hate the reason why ye’re here. You? Havnae quite decided yet,” David delivers, the unfamiliar and warm feeling of honesty quickly spreading in his chest. “Anyways, _Gary_ , something tells me there’s more to this whole name thing. Unless you consider news that made the Sunday Times and probably every Swedish tabloid cover story four years ago a _secret_?”

“Let the record state that _you_ were the one to interrupt me, Wally, you smug tit,” Gary says, mordant but playful. “I obviously wasn’t quite finished.”

“Apologies, Gary.”

He looks pensive, for a second. “Yeah, see, that’s actually it, I suppose. It’s _not_ Gary, either. It’s never been Gary. Not what I call meself, and not what people call me. Well, apart from a few posh fucks from the Marines I still bump into when they come in for fittings, I s’pose.”

_The Marines? Hume never mentioned anything about the Marines._

“Anyways. Me dad, he… He passed away when I was six. He and Mum gave me this name, but neither of them never used it, not really. Mum told me stories about Dad, said that he used to call me his “little egg” when I was a baby because me hair took a while to grow in. Then, even when it did, he just forgot to stop. By the time I could understand what he was saying, it had turned to “Eggsy”—and I’ve gone by that ever since. Eggsy.”

“Eggsy,” David repeats, slowly, like he’s tasting it on his tongue. “Eggsy.” 

It’s weird, the shift that makes inside David. First names, that’s familiar. A nickname that was given to him when he was a boy— _this hard-headed, gorgeous man was once a wee barra like my Charlie_ —and by his dead father, no less? Yeah, that’ll do for shattering some glass walls between them.

_Eggsy._

“Yes, that’s it, Wally. _Eggsy_ ,” Galahad confirms. “Anyways. Onto the real thing, now you’re all caught up,” he declares. Something happens, then. Immediately, his brow furrows and he darkens considerably. “You see, I grew up on a crappy estate in South London, with a bad attitude and a mum who didn’t really take good care of me. Saw her fall arse over tits for the biggest loser she could find—and have a kid with him, too. I love my little sister, though,” he adds, hurriedly. “This is absolutely not about her. Definitely all about _him_. Repairman by day, drug dealer by night and, again, a fucking violent wanker pretty much 24/7. When I turned 16, he took me to one side, handed me a baggie of what I assumed was skag, and told me he wanted me to start hanging out with his so-called employees and pushing the stuff. Those blokes were scary fuckers, carrying knives and guns and using them on anyone who looked at them funny after dusk.” He pauses, quite dramatically. 

If David didn’t know better, he’d think Gal— _Eggsy_ is recounting a very well-rehearsed lie.

“I said no, at first, and he beat me raw. And that didn’t work, because I was used to it. Wasn’t the first nor the last time. But then he started beating my mum. And he threatened he’d move to Daisy next, if I disobeyed him any further. Didn’t have no choice, by that point. Long story short, I ended up doing it. Pushing drugs. Got meself in with all the wrong crowds, and it lasted for years, mate. The amount of times I got thumped, bruv. Kingsman is what saved me. H— _Arthur_ saved me.”

David is very conflicted, for a second. On the one hand, he prides himself in his ability to read people, and he is almost one hundred percent sure that Eggsy’s narrative, however much like a crappy superhero origin story it might sound, is genuine. On the other hand, it really seems…

“...kind of strange that the King and Queen of Sweden would even let you set foot in their palace, let alone give you their daughter’s hand in marriage.”

_Oh, fuck. Fuck. No, not what I meant to say at all. Way to sound like a goddamn sociopath, David. Well bloody done._

“Beg your pardon?” Eggsy quite rightfully replies, as his face hardens even more.

“Um. No, fuck, sorry G— _Eggsy_ , didn’t... mean tae say that out loud,” David hopelessly stutters, apologetic, feeling himself flush crimson.

“I’d suggest you check the bloody filter, then, mate—because it just failed you, there. You very much _did_ say that out loud,” he claps back, angrily. “You’re absolutely unbelievable, Wallace. First time we met, you accused me of being a posh cunt. Now that you know the truth, I’m still not worth your while because suddenly I’m a worthless _pleb_? Fuck me, you really are fun to hang out with.”

“No, shit, that’s absolutely not what I meant. I don’t think any of those things. I’m… I’m sorry it came out like that. I can explain,” David says, weakly. “It’s because I’m… familiar with the situation. And by ‘situation’, I mean the Swedish Royal family,” he blurts, before he can think twice about it.

Eggsy’s face relaxes for a moment, letting a genuine look of surprise shine through for the briefest moment, but then he quickly resumes furrowing his brow, pursing his lips in contempt, and grinding his teeth in irritation.

“Oh, but of course. Makes perfect sense, dunnit? What are you, the King’s second cousin twice removed or some bollocks like that? Bet you were invited to Tilde’s birthday parties as a kid. Bet you even shagged her a couple of times, actually. Eh?”

“Nothing like that, no, I just…”

“Oh wait, is _that_ why you don’t want to tell me your real name? Because you’re a fucking Swedish royal?” Eggsy asks, incredulously. Then, he gives David a sardonic smile. “You really did a great job with the accent, bruv, fuck me. That is some good work, right there. How long’d that take you, exactly?” he furiously doubles down.

_Fine. I really do deserve it._

“No, please, it’s really not that,” David replies, raising his hands in front of his chest in surrender, desperately trying to weather the storm. “It’s just… I was briefly involved with Prince Carl. Ages ago, before you met Tilde, I’m told. He was initially chosen as the target for a honeypot mission but he, um, grew fond of me, I guess? In a way. You know.” 

He pauses, waiting for any sign of assent from Eggsy, but he gets none. It’s like talking to a concrete wall—except the wall very much lives and breathes and is positively on _fire_ with anger. 

When he’s sure he’s not going to get any feedback or encouragement from the wall, David decides to continue all the same.

“Long story short, he brought me home once, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt more out of place at a dinner table in my whole life. He then told me that his parents didn’t want me at the palace, even if we were officially together, so Carl told them to fuck off and we moved to his estate in Uppsala together.” _Completely fucked up my marriage in the process. All those lies. How much easier it would have been if Vicky actually knew what I was doing_. “Lasted six months, then he found another toy boy and put me on a flight home.” Another pause, and still absolutely no reaction from Eggsy, so David just decides to soldier on. “I guess what I was trying to say, and ended up phrasing very poorly indeed, is that they’re snobbish fucks, the lot of them. I was just surprised you didn’t get the same treatment I did, is all. Then again, I suppose, you two were a more _traditional_ couple.”

_What the fuck am I even saying? Just fucking shut up, David. Stop. It. Abort mission._

Eggsy looks absolutely bewildered at that. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Frowns. Raises his right hand and points at David.

“Wait. Hold on. Did you… What?” he stammers, gesturing frantically. “Did you _really_ just tell me that you were hooking up with my ex-wife’s brother for six whole months?”

David feels weirdly relieved, for a second. Then, he mentally breaks down Eggsy’s reaction, and he’s absolutely outraged by it.

“Is that _all_ you got from that entire thing? I was trying to sympathise with you!”

“You call _that_ empathising, mate? Are you being funny or summat?” Eggsy barks, absolutely furious.

“Not even remotely,” David replies, confidently.

Eggsy rolls his eyes. “Sorry, yeah, my bad—dunno how I forgot you don’t have an _ounce_ of humour in you,” he snarks, sassily. “I seriously cannot believe that you thought that this little speech of yours was even marginally the same as me spilling my guts to you about my shit upbringing. Like I want to listen to your fucking sob story about how you were tossed aside by a fucking prince after six months—while you were on a _fucking_ honeypot, to boot. Like I would actually believe you got your ruddy heart broken. Fucking spare me, Wallace. You can brag about your royal shags to somebody else—not interested, mate.” 

When Eggsy’s done shouting at him, David realises his heart is beating a hundred miles an hour. He just feels absolutely crushed. And not by Eggsy’s reaction, either: he knows, he _knows_ the man’s right and that everything he’s just said is fair. David is mostly angry at himself, really. Somewhere along the way, he seems to have completely lost the ability to interact like a human being. _Maybe they’re right about me needing proper therapy, fucking hell._

Eggsy then turns towards the mirror and gestures back and forth between himself and David. “We done here, Merlin? D’you finally see how this is never going to fuckin’ work?”

Merlin’s voice comes in via the intercom. “Aye, alright. I think we’re done for today.”

“Fucking right we are,” Eggsy retorts. He then stands up and turns back to face David, and fuck, if that’s not a look that instils the fear of God into someone, David really doesn’t know what is. “Oh and by the way, you fucking prick: there is not one molecule in my body that’s, as you so elegantly put it, _traditional_ ,” he says, disdainful. “Don’t believe me? Ask my _fucking_ boss.”

He then storms out of the room.

David sags into the chair and rubs his face with both hands, resisting the urge to actually slap himself. He can hear Hume muttering something through the intercom, but he’s not listening—too busy cringing at his own dickish behaviour, and at the mere thought of going back home tonight.

_Once again, David: well done indeed, mate._

*

**_Shared Clansman flat, Hillhead, Glasgow. Later that evening._ **

Tucking into his extremely boring quinoa and lentil bowl with pieces of barely seasoned chicken breast, David reflects on the fact that he hasn’t had dinner in his bedroom since his first week of uni. He was 18 and had just moved to a very big dorm on campus, which was positively crawling with people and, therefore, absolutely terrifying. He distinctly remembers spending a whole hour in front of his door, giving himself a pep talk of sorts—he’d promised his Ma that he’d report back at the end of the week with news that he’d made at least one friend—but he’d ended up more or less frozen on the spot by crippling social anxiety and the absolute certainty that no-one would even like him anyways, so why bother. Vicky was the one who ultimately took it upon herself to drag him out of there, and he was so overwhelmingly grateful to her that he ended up marrying her, only a few years later. 

David is well aware that Galahad, however—who hasn’t spoken to him since their row in the observation suite—definitely won’t be pulling a Vicky on him any time soon. Therefore, as he forces down bite after bite of his bland but supposedly healthy concoction in front of his computer and yet another episode of _Drag Race_ , he takes his sweet time to reflect on how big a wanker he’s been today.

He’s only listening to RuPaul with one ear, however, because, for approximately five minutes, he’s been hearing not-so-faint noises of what sounds like a conversation coming from the living room. Having done the respectful thing, i.e. leaving Galahad some privacy for the night, David is really not surprised that the man is taking advantage of the couch space being free to make what seems to be a very animated call. 

David hears the tune of Galahad’s voice seep through the poorly soundproofed door and walls of his bedroom, and even manages to catch a few lines of his speech—all of them very loud and _extremely_ colourful—that most likely are referring to David and his appalling behaviour during their ‘couples’ therapy’ exercise. 

Galahad _clearly_ doesn’t give half a toss about David listening in. 

Halfway through the episode, David stops paying attention to what’s on the screen altogether, however, because Galahad’s voice, accented and ringing, is suddenly not the only thing he can hear. Following a string of curses and the words _stupid fucking useless headphones_ , David distinguishes a different sound coming from the living room. It sounds like male voice, much deeper than Galahad’s, and like it could belong to some kind of old Etonian with a stick up his big 1% arse.

_Alright, fuck it. Not like the sneaky minx hasn’t eavesdropped on my calls before._

Careful not to make any noise that would alert Galahad to his stealthy snooping, David gets up from his chair and opens the door a crack, leaning against the wall and pricking up his ears.

“My dear boy,” the other voice is saying, “I absolutely detest seeing you in such a state.” David hears the man sigh. “I knew I should have said something when Merlin suggested you’d be the one to go up there. I know these people, they are… hard to crack.”

Galahad scoffs. “That’s a euphemism if I’ve ever heard of one. But please stop treating me like a fuckin’ child, Harry. You know full well that I can take care of myself.” He pauses for a beat, then he adds, in a small voice, “I had to live without you for an entire year, if you recall.”

_Harry. Why does the name sound familiar? Anyone in Kingsman named—oh, fuck, this can’t be…?_

“Apologies, Eggsy. Of course. I just… worry about you, I suppose. And constantly, I’m afraid. Merlin showed me that footage from Finland he got from Hume, and—”

_Oh, but it can. Arthur is taking afterhours personal calls from Galahad, apparently._

“Will everyone just fucking _stop_ yapping on about Finland already?” Galahad blurts, angrily. “Fucking hell, I get it. _We_ get it, I should say. I know Wallace is as upset as I am about how that one turned out. And he’s right—and I _hate_ that he’s right: it really was all my fault,” he adds, timidly.

David’s stomach does a somersault that, quite surprisingly, has nothing to do with smugness or the usually priceless satisfaction of being told he’s right. There’s just something about how crushed Galahad sounds, he supposes.

“I don’t think that’s fair, my dear. You may be forgetting that you did have the chance to explain yourself to both Merlin and me, and that we both agreed on your motive to instigate the argument with those wretched thugs being extremely noble indeed. You acted like a true Kingsman, Eggsy, and you’ve got absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.”

Damn. Arthur has _such_ a soft spot for Galahad. David feels almost dirty to be listening in, but he’s much too invested to back down now.

“D’you mean that, Harry?” 

“But of course I do. There is a lot of team-building work to be done, sure—and I really would like a word with your colleague to kindly let him know he really should get off my boy’s arse—but, other than that, I reckon this mission is not quite hopeless yet. I have a lot of faith in you, Eggsy: I hope you know that.”

“Your…” Galahad starts, but he trails off. David thinks he knows exactly what the rest of the sentence was going to be, too. _Fuck me, he really is shagging his boss._

“Yes, Eggsy.”

“So you’ve been… missing me?”

“But of course I have, my dear boy,” Arthur replies, in a soft, fond tone.

David, not realising he’d been leaning in more and more with every passing minute, temporarily loses his footing and accidentally makes a tad too much noise while grabbing the side of the door to avoid an embarrassing landing. 

_Discreet as fuck. Hume is right—we are such shit spies, the pair of us._

“I’m going to have to call you back, Harry,” David hears Galahad say, in a completely different tone, serious and business-like. “It seems that our conversation is no longer private.”

David only faintly hears Arthur bidding Galahad a good night as he scrambles to retrieve his bowl and wolf down the couple of bites of food left in it. When he’s done, he puts his metaphorical dickhead mask back on and walks out of his room, as nonchalantly as he can muster, moving in the direction of the kitchen.

He makes a show of turning slightly to his left as he walks past the living room and quirking an eyebrow at Galahad, who’s sitting cross-legged on the couch with his arms clutched around his middle. He looks vulnerable but also very, very annoyed.

“Oh, Galahad, fancy seeing you here. Didn’t even know you were home,” he lies through his teeth, purely to wind the man up further.

Needless to say, it works like a charm. “Bollocks, Wallace. Absolute _bollocks_ ,” he retorts, angrily, raising from his seat and walking towards David but stopping before getting too close. He fixes David with a hard gaze, the same David recognises from earlier—fear of God and all that. “How much of that did you hear?”

_Pretty much all of it. These walls are paper-thin. I can hear you wanking, sometimes, for fuck’s sake._

“Just the end,” David casually shrugs, turning his back on Galahad and going to put his dirty bowl in the kitchen sink. “And it was enough, frankly,” he says, not bothering to turn back around as he opens the tap to fill the bowl with water, pre-washing up.

He hears Galahad mutter _prick_ under his breath, then the soft noise of him walking away.

He knows how vulnerable and slightly broken Galahad is, but nonetheless feels his thoughts-to-mouth filter fail once again, as he calls out, “Oh, and by the way, word of advice, Galahad: shagging your boss? _Really_ not the best idea, under any circumstance.”

“Oh, _piss off_ , Wallace,” Galahad snaps, slamming his bedroom door behind him and plunging the flat in a sudden, complete and eerie silence.

David spends the whole night tossing and turning, wondering how it is possible to get it so wrong, so many times over. Come 5AM the next day, he still hasn’t found an answer.

*

**_Training room, Clansman HQ, Glenglassaugh Distillery, Aberdeenshire. Two days later._ **

After yet another cold and stilted evening very much _keeping their distance_ from each other in the flat, once again David and Galahad have been required to present themselves for a second round of team-building exercises at Glenglassaugh. Merlin and Hume are both present and looking far too chipper for two men who are essentially babysitting two wayward agents with attitude problems.

“Perhaps this exercise will appeal more to your competitive natures and encourage you to try _actually working together_ for once.” 

“Agents: meet your competition,” Hume announces gesturing at the door for the newcomers to enter. Two very familiar figures made their way through the door, wide grins stretching across handsome faces.

“All right! How’s it going, lads?” David says with a laugh and a warm handshake, welcoming Lamberton and Stewart into the room, before realising once again that he will not be teamed up with them, and once again will be stuck with Galahad The Impossible, who has been suspiciously quiet since the other agents entered the room.

“Your task is to work together as a team and protect the egg.” David snorts a laugh and Galahad— _Eggsy_ glowers at him. Both Merlin and Hume level disappointed looks at both of them before continuing. “As a team, you will create protective housings for the eggs, which will then be dropped from increasing heights—and checked between each drop to ensure their integrity. The team with the most successful device, or the one with the highest drop height without failure at the end, wins.”

“You will have 15 minutes and the following basic supplies at your disposal to create a protective enclosure for your egg,” he says, indicating the table in front of him. “You will have 60 seconds to make your selections from this table, whenever you choose to do so, and you will not be able to return once that allotted time has elapsed. So, plan and make your choices wisely.”

“No way your design is going to survive the Eggpocalypse!” Lamberton jibes, trying to trash-talk. David just winces. He knows this is not going to go well for him, especially if Galahad thinks—oh, yes, he definitely does. 

“You already told everyone my name, you wanker?” he hisses. “I only just told you yesterday!”

“ _Galahad_ ,” David stresses. “I haven’t told anyone anything. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re doing an _egg_ -drop exercise. If you want to complain about the entirely accidental bad puns about to ensue, you should bring it up with Hume and Merlin.”

Galahad looks chagrined for a split second before obviously pushing away his discomfort and changing the subject. “Any ideas for a design?”

“Hey! No cheating!” Lamberton cries out. “They haven’t given us the go-ahead yet, wankers!”

Stewart looks around Lamberton, eyebrow raised. “Cheating again, Wallace?” he snarks. “My, my. Would have thought you’d have learned your lesson after the last game we played.”

“Don’t need to cheat. Competing against the lot of you? They could have actually brought in real competition—not the bloody brain injury squad,” David pokes back amicably, no heat in his voice. 

“Right, now gentlemen,” Merlin interrupts, causing all four men to straighten up and move slightly closer to their partners in preparation. “On my mark, you may begin. One. Two. Three. _Begin!_ ”

David takes a moment to quickly observe their competition. Stewart and Lamberton have sat down at a table with biros and paper and seem to be attempting a design. Satisfied with their seemingly slow approach, David returns his focus to their workstation and his teammate. 

In the seconds David has had his attention diverted, Galahad also seems to have taken the opportunity to start jotting down some notes, comparing what can be seen of the available supplies and making some quick sketches.

“I was thinking that maybe we could work at this kind of like a brain and a skull? Hard outer shell, bit of something to insulate the egg and stop it from jostling around as much. What were you thinking?

“I think that idea is shit—too much work and too difficult to check on the egg between drops,” David replies, harsher than he would have liked. Oh well, too late now to back down. “We need to figure out some way for optimal shock absorption, with minimal layers to interfere.”

“But we need those layers to make sure the damn egg doesn’t shatter into a million pieces!” Galahad protests.

David drags over the paper Galahad has been scribbling on. “No. This is just a bad idea all round. Too much can go wrong with this: plastic containers, packing material or tissue and tape? Are you serious? Lamby and Stewart definitely have something better than this shit planned.” He notes Stewart out of the corner of his eye, making his way over to the supply table and making their selections. “We need to hurry this up, we’re falling behind already.”

Galahad sighs in frustration. “If you have such fabulous ideas, why don’t you share them? All you’ve done so far is shoot down my design without so much as a viable alternative of your own.”

David shakes his head and checks the clock. More than five minutes have already elapsed while they were squabbling like children. “We need to get a move on. Let’s just go to the table and see what we can find and figure it out as we go.”

“Fine,” Galahad huffs out, but follows him to the supply table. 

“Sixty seconds—starting now, you two!” Hume says cheerfully, hitting a stopwatch, while standing next to the table.

The pickings are _slim_. It appears that Stewart cleaned house when he was up here, either that, or Hume and Merlin really were wanting them to think outside the box. Left on the table are a bag of crisps, three pencils, six chenille stems, two balloons and a roll of sellotape. 

“ _Fuck.”_ He hears from over his shoulder. He can’t help but agree with the sentiment. They gather the lot and make their way back to their table to try to work out their design. _This is not going to go well._

As Galahad gets to work blowing up the balloons and attempting to rig some sort of primary protective system up, David focuses on trying to make some sort of protective container surrounding the egg. He contemplates for a moment just sellotaping around the egg itself to keep the pieces together when it drops, but he quickly determines that actually would be cheating—the egg would be as good as broken once the tape is removed. He grabs the chenille stems and starts to wind them around the pencils and then around the egg. This is not going to go well for them, David can already tell. 

“You have 45 seconds remaining to complete your build!” Hume calls out. 

David, just having done about as much as he possibly could for the egg, turns to Galahad to see him grab the bag of crisps from the table and attempt to affix it and the two balloons with sellotape to his egg-exoskeleton. _Not bad,_ David thinks to himself absently. It might well be a half decent enclosure, provided the balloons or the bag don’t explode on impact. 

“...and time!” Hume’s voice interrupts yet again. “Put everything down on the table.”

David looks down at their pathetic egg and then spares a glance over at the competition. _Fuck me_ , he thinks to himself. _No way we are going to win this one_. Stewart and Lamberton’s device looks really, really good. Simple, but elegant: plastic straws cradle the egg in a criss-cross pattern, poking out on all sides as shock absorption with balloons affixed to the ends to create a bouncing ball effect, and the egg itself is held gently in place with chenille stems to avoid any strenuous knocking about. 

Both teams make their way outside to demo their egg-protectors where there is a scaffold structure already waiting. Stewart and Lamberton are up first. 

Hume gingerly picks up both devices and walks up the stairs attached to the scaffolding, to a height of approximately two metres. He carefully deposits David and Galahad’s contraption on the ground next to him and holds the first device in both hands. 

“First drop for team Stewart and Lamberton, from a height of approximately 2 metres. And… go!” He drops the device, which hits the ground and bounces. “Merlin, if you would be so kind as to check the integrity of the egg?”

Merlin walks over and quickly checks the device and the egg. “All clear. Device can proceed to the next round.”

Hume nods and picks up their device. “First drop for team Wallace and Galahad, ready about?” he calls to the spectators. Without waiting for a response, he drops the ugly little thing and upon impact, the bag of crisps explodes violently, bits of potato littering the ground. 

“Well,” Galahad sighs, “I suppose that’s the end for us.”

“Course it bloody is. Our design is fucking pathetic,” David mutters under his breath. 

Galahad, obviously overhearing and assuming that this is very much a stab at him, snarks back, “And whose fault is that, exactly? I was all set to discuss this like adults from the very beginning! Maybe we would have actually gotten some half-decent supplies if you hadn’t been dragging your heels and shutting down my every idea. If this is anyone’s fault, it’s yours!”

“Hey now—we’re a _team_ , here aren’t we? So if it’s my fault, it’s _your_ fault too,” David fires back, defensively.

“You know what, Wallace? Fuck this. And fuck _you_ too,” Galahad snaps back, aggressive but sounding defeated. 

Merlin and Hume make their way over.

“That’s quite enough boys,” Merlin says, glaring at them both. “Galahad: you will go run the obstacle course. I expect that when you come back, it will be in a better frame of mind.”

“Wallace, off to the gym with you,” Hume parrots. “We are separating you for the next two hours. You are not to make contact for the duration and, after that time, we will all reconvene in my office. Is that understood?” 

They’re both trying to sound business-like, but the disappointment in both men’s voices is crystal clear. David, refusing to show weakness as ever, straightens his spine and nods quickly making his way away from the group of men, not even bothering to bid farewell to Lamberton and Stewart on his way back into the building, heading straight to the gym. 

_What’s going to happen now?_ David wonders to himself. He has a feeling like Hume is past the end of his patience for the two of them, and this may well be their last chance. 

_Game time._

Exactly two hours later, David and Galahad meet up outside of Hume’s office, both an absolutely sweaty mess in their training clothes. It was an absolutely _gruelling_ workout: Hume had arranged for one of the Clansman trainers to meet him in the gym, and said trainer then proceeded to annihilate him for the entire duration of the two allotted ‘time-out’ hours. That meant he didn’t even get five minutes to grab some water and take a shower—and, looking at Galahad, it seems that the man’s experience had been much the same. 

“I suppose this is it,” Galahad pants out, clearly out of breath, as he comes to a stop outside the door. “We should get in there before they skin us for being late.”

David, already raising his arm to knock on the door, shoots him a dirty look. “What does it look like I’m doing?” _So much for best behaviour, I guess_ , he huffs to himself in bemusement, knocking on the door and opening it.

“I see you gentlemen had good workouts,” Hume says with a wry smile. “Please, take a seat. There’s water too, if you need it.” He indicates the two seats on the side of his desk by the door and reaches into his under desk fridge for a couple bottles of cold water. David takes one and immediately cracks it open, drinking deeply.

“And how are we feeling now?” Merlin queries from the far corner of Hume’s office where he is tapping away diligently on his clipboard-pad thing. _What is up with that? Why not just use a regular tablet and be done with it?_ David wonders idly. Seems like a bit of a waste to mock up a clipboard like that—but it is really none of his business.

“Fine, Merlin,” Galahad grumbles, reaching for the proffered water bottle and gulping down a couple swigs. “Always a good time on the course—‘specially when you’re made to run it about a hundred times in a row without a break.”

Merlin just hides his quite frankly evil grin by looking down at his clipboard. _Uh oh, that doesn’t bode well for us._ “Well, we wanted to get you two nice and tired out so that you might _think things through_ before reacting.”

Hume nods. “Yes. We’ve got one final task for the both of you. Right here and now.”

Both David and Galahad straighten in their seats, waters clutched in their hands, attentive. 

“Up until now, you have both failed miserably at every task set in front of you. You have refused to work together, collaborate, or even consider each other’s ideas. You have also been asked to live together, which we hope has led you to a more thorough understanding of each other. This is what we are looking to test today,” Hume explains, casting a glance at Merlin before turning back to David and Galahad. 

“Exactly. As you should now have a good grasp on each other’s interests and likes, you will take this opportunity to show us, by coming up with an activity for the two of you to do together—one that you believe your partner would enjoy,” Merlin continues, taking over for Hume. “Would either of you like to go first? Perhaps you would oblige us, Galahad?” He looks to his own agent.

“Well,” he begins, obviously trying to think on the spot. “I was thinking I could take Wallace to the course and teach him some parkour, maybe? It would be a good exercise for us to do together and maybe good to build trust, or something? Plus I know we both work out and this would be a good way to do it together?” he finishes, a bit timid and unsure. 

_Oh yeah, he definitely didn’t put any thought into that._ _Honestly, parkour? Like we’re some children on a playground?_ Galahad has more than likely been inspired by his recent stint on the outdoor obstacle course, because he has the attention span of a goldfish. _A hot goldfish, with a great arse, though,_ David thinks to himself. 

“Pretty sure I’m fine without your fancy footwork tricks. Honestly, I run that obstacle course too. Try to think of something a bit more original, maybe.” Shit, why does he keep saying stuff like this? It’s _fine_. This would all be fine if he just smiled and nodded and kept his damn trap _shut._

“Well then, if _you’re_ so great at this, you give it a go then, why don’t you?” Eggsy throws back at him. “I can’t imagine you’ve got anything better.”

“Well,” David says eyeing Galahad up and down, “you seem like you enjoy a good night out, and since you mentioned our interests seem to run similarly, I was thinking that maybe I should take you out to a gay club.” He winks at his ‘partner’. “You can shake that arse you seem to be so proud of, and as a bonus, maybe find a way to get over that person you’re clearly mooning over—by getting _under_ someone else. It’s a win-win, don’t you think, Galahad?” David says, in a saccharine tone.

“You little shit!” Galahad exclaims jumping up from his chair and knocking it back while lunging at David. 

“That’s enough! Both of you!” Hume cuts in, in a dangerous tone of voice, while raising an unfamiliar and rather posh fountain pen from the desk top. “Needless to say, you have failed this exercise—and quite thoroughly, I’m afraid. I’m sorry to have to do this.” 

He flips up the metal clip on the pen lid. David just has the time to think _shite_ , before the world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh, they really fucked up this time, didn't they?
> 
> Sorry for this cruel cliffhanger. We promise we'll pay it off in full, with an excessive extravaganza that will actually result in more for you to read (two very long chapters, split in two, i.e. two double-bill weeks!).
> 
> We're so excited. We hope you are too!
> 
> As usual, if you enjoyed what you read, please let us know down here, we appreciate every single bit of feedback we get.
> 
> See you next week!
> 
> Love,
> 
> M and C xx


	7. VI. Deus Ex Montibus - I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _No, no, no. This simply cannot be happening._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday folks! How's everyone doing on this fine day in July?  
> Well, we can tell you something for relatively certain: you're (hopefully) all doing better than our boys are—at least for this next couple of weeks—on Idiots to Lovers(TM).  
> Good news for you is that, since this chapter got _really_ out of hand, we're posting it in two installments. Ergo, you lovely folks are getting a double bill this week (also next week, tbf, but let's not jump too far just yet).
> 
> In case anyone was wondering: the title is a play on _deus ex machina_. But they're on mountains. Get it? We laugh at ourselves, sometimes, too, and you'll see why. This whole thing is way too ridiculous to deserve anything less than an _ex machina_ stamp on it.
> 
> As usual, please find **[our weekly playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3BBWqSyVrMiFVc52zTCyak?si=WrWaa3HUSwykvVUjQfC3lQ)** for your kind consideration. Loads of moody trail songs this week.
> 
> We're sending our two little Hobbits on a wee adventure, friends. If you want to follow their journey, please refer to the map (yeah, the _map_ ) in the end notes. It's all M's work, and I for one I'm grateful it exists: it's there for us all not to get lost in this whole thing, and also, maybe (definitely) to make us all want to get on a plane to Aberdeen and on a Land Rover Defender right this minute. *sighs dreamily*
> 
> Happy reading!

_**VI. Deus Ex Montibus - I** _

**_Unknown location. Early morning._ **

Today, it’s not the usual silent alarm from David’s spy watch that wakes him from what distinctly feels like an extremely deep and disturbed slumber. Today, his head is not nestled in his nice sheets and his body is not cradled by the weight of the hefty duvet he usually sleeps under. Today, David’s being positively _yanked_ back to consciousness. Today, it feels like he’s literally being slapped in the face by a cold, violent wind, the strength of which is unfamiliar to anything he’s used to. Today, he’s lying on some cold ground, and he can smell the earth and—what in the name of _fuck_ —the _snow_ around him. 

Shaking his head in disbelief as he comes to a sitting position, David rubs the rest of the weird and most definitely artificial sleep from his face. _Right. What the fuck happened, and where the fuck am I?_

He realises that he’s got a shock blanket covering him; he immediately lifts it, to check on the rest of his body. Nothing apart from his head really hurts, but he wants to look… Ah, very good. What he thought. Military-grade—but really Clansman-patented—hiking boots. Forest green cargo pants. Judging by how warm his legs feel, he’s possibly also wearing some thermal leggings. 

Then, he looks down at his chest: more Clansman thermals, and an ID tag like he hadn’t worn since his army days dangling from his neck from a slim silver chain. He realises he seems to be all set for an adventure in the wilderness—were it not for the lack of instructions on what the fuck he’s supposed to do, directions to where the fuck he’s supposed to go, and memory of how the fuck he’s gotten here, of course. David’s instinct is to tap his left temple to access the Clansman neural network but, look at that (surprise surprise), it doesn’t seem to be working. _Of course it wouldn’t._

David then glances to his right, down at Galahad, and—wait, _what_? Galahad’s here too? And— _oh, fuck no_. He raises his right hand and silently curses in Gaelic.

 _No, no, no. This simply cannot be happening_. 

He inspects the thin but sturdy-looking metal cuff around his wrist with a mixture of disbelief and pure indignation, then tries to force it open. Not like he expects to get anywhere—he unfortunately knows this kind of device from having used it himself on targets during certain kinds of, ahem, _missions_ , and he’s painfully aware that it will be nigh on impossible to get out of them until they’re released by their captors (read: quartermasters) or, alternatively, if they can somehow get their hands on a high powered super computer and hack into Hume’s system on the Clansman network. All in all, given their current situation, the latter seems to be highly unlikely. 

As expected, all his desperate attempts to get the thing open fail miserably; this, in turn, fuels his anger and raises another wave of swear words—this one loud enough to rouse Galahad. 

“Mmmhwhat?” Galahad mumbles, coming to a sitting position and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He then carefully opens them, just a slit, squinting as if he’s expecting there to be light hitting his face. “What? Who—Wallace? What the fuck?” he stammers, looking stunned and instinctively shifting a tad further away from David with a little jump. He looks left and right, then upwards. “Where the _fuck_ are we?”

“That’s the least of our concerns,” David replies, bitterly, nodding at his shackled wrist. He witnesses Galahad raise his left hand and inspect his own cuff, then look between it and David in bewilderment. 

“What the _fuck_ , Wallace?”

“Ye’re starting tae sound like a broken record, Galahad,” David retorts, impatiently, experimentally tugging on the small chain attaching the two cuffs together. Since the last time David’s used it, the device seems to have been improved to include a new mechanism: the further away he moves his arm, the longer the chain becomes— _kinda like a retractable dog lead_ , he can’t help but think.

“It’s _Eggsy_ , Wallace, please—and seriously, d’you have any idea what the fuck these are, and what the fuck happened to us?” Gal— _Eggsy_ asks, finally emerging from the shock blanket completely and coming to a cross-legged position.

“What makes ye think I’d know more about this than you do? Look at us, man—we’re shackled together, dressed for the great outdoors and, dunno about the state of yer glasses, but my contact lenses are doing fuck all faer me, at the moment. Network seems tae be down. I think we’re on our own, Eggsy,” David finishes, discouraged.

“What d’you mean…” Eggsy trails off, tapping the side of his ridiculous thick-framed black specs and looking increasingly horrified. “No, Merlin wouldn’t do this to me!”

“Yeah, well—haven’t been exemplary, lately, have ye?” David says, before realising he’s switched arsehole-mode back on.

“How bloody _dare_ you. You’re the one who literally has made no effort whatsoever! You’re the _reason_ we’re here!”

Out of nowhere, David hears a sudden low noise, which is mostly being drowned out by Eggsy’s voice. Without thinking, David _shushes_ Eggsy—when Eggsy is obviously not done whining—and Eggsy just looks like he’s going to explode from rage.

“Sorry, sorry,” David hurriedly apologises, desperately attempting to pour water on the sudden sparks of another screaming match. “I just meant—listen, can ye hear it?” 

Eggsy listens for a beat, then looks down at David’s… crotch. “There, bruv. Not exactly the sound of nature: you’re _literally_ buzzing.”

 _Fuck, he’s right._ The vibration is so delicate and David’s wearing so many layers he was barely feeling it against his quad, but Eggsy _is_ correct: there definitely is something in his front trouser pocket that is currently demanding his attention. What he ends up retrieving is a shiny but obviously all but antique silver flip phone— _a Motorola Razr_ , his pedantic fourteen-year-old self reminds him. He stares at it for a second, not quite believing his eyes. He also fleetingly reads the time on the small screen: 6:07 AM.

“Well?” Eggsy spurs him on, impatient. “Take the bloody call, won’t ya?”

David nods and flips the thing open, immediately hitting the speaker button so Eggsy can hear as well. _Private number. Duh._ “H-hello?”

“Good morning, little flowers,” Hume’s voice says, bright and cheerful. “Hope you’ve both slept alright. I’d say we’re sorry about the unfortunate state you’re in, but…”

“...we’re _really_ not,” another voice interjects, this one deep and profoundly Scottish. _Merlin_. “Y’wee pissheads deserve this and so much more,” he says, in a spiteful tone.

“There, there, Merlin, old friend. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, eh?” Hume placates his colleague, sounding way too amused himself. “Have you had a chance to take a look around you, yet, boys?”

“Not quite yet,” Eggsy replies, irritably. “Not exactly easy to move around with these hellish things you’ve strapped on us, now, is it?”

“Don’ be a baby, Galahad,” Merlin replies, curtly. “Agents, kindly get yer arses out of the shelter and tell us what ye see.”

David notices a button on his cuff and presses it: as he’d anticipated, this blocks the chain in place. He proceeds to tug on it, which in turn jerks Eggsy forward—a silent and admittedly quite rude rendition of _come on, then_ —and get on his feet, ignoring Eggsy’s rumbling curses behind him.

When they get out in the open, the breathtaking wildness of the view before his eyes immediately hits David square in the chest. Nothing but wind, rocks and mountains all around them, for what looks like miles and miles. No sign of human life: just magnificent, snowy and green desolation.

“Fuck me,” Eggsy breathes, on David’s right. 

“Very well,” Merlin’s voice immediately starts again, as if prompted by Eggsy’s fruitless contribution to the conversation. “For a bit of context, you fellas are currently smack in the middle of the Cairngorms National Park—more specifically at the summit of Ben Macdui,” the man goes on to explain, in a rather flat tone.

“You are going to have to complete a series of tasks to prove you’re actually willing to work together and, effectively, still worthy of this mission.” Hume sounds solemn, all of a sudden. David can almost _see_ him—the smug fucker. “Follow the path down the east side of the mountain, and follow the trail markers directing you to the Hutchison Memorial Hut. There, the nice ranger will give you boys your gear and instructions to the first checkpoint,” he finishes, a tad condescendingly—but then, David reasons, they (and especially _he_ ) have bloody deserved to be treated like children. They have, quite honestly, _behaved_ like children for three weeks straight, after all.

“ _A series of tasks_?” Eggsy wonders out loud. Then, he lowers his voice. “Fuck me, this is like one of my bad dreams where I’m back to Kingsman trials.”

Merlin, evidently picking that last bit up despite Eggsy’s best efforts, lets out a chortle. “My dear boy, this will be _so much worse_ for you than the trials were: I know how stressed you get when you know a clock is ticking over your head, so it is my pleasure to announce to both of youse that each and every one of these tasks will be timed. That, of course, includes your upcoming wee hike down to the ranger’s cabin. Three hours, starting now. Good luck, boys,” he delivers, deadpan.

“And to be clear,” Hume adds, almost as an afterthought, “you both keeping your jobs is one hundred percent contingent on you making the most of this lovely couple of days we’ve got planned for you. So, on behalf of both our agencies—and the whole world, which is currently going to shit and desperately needs your help: get over yourselves, work together, and be good to each other. Speak soon!”

Before either David or Eggsy can get a word in, the line goes dead. All that’s left to do is to puff out in disbelief and look at each other in despair for a couple of beats, frozen on the spot as they are. 

It is Eggsy that stirs first, going all straight-faced and shooting David a determined look. “Well? You heard the fuckers. Let’s go.”

*

**_Hike to the Hutchinson Memorial Hut_ **

**_Ben Macdui Eastern Pass, 7:30 AM. 2.5 hours remaining._ **

They walk in silence for the longest time, but Eggsy looks so cross and resentful that David swears he can _hear_ what Eggsy is thinking. Mostly, David tries not to pay him much attention: he focuses on the road ahead and tries not to trip over rocks or treacherous patches of snow; but sometimes, just sometimes, as he glances down at his cuffed wrist and the silver chain attaching him to the man he seems to have successfully made his arch enemy ( _Jesus Christ, David: this is real life, no-one has arch enemies_ ), David can’t help but also surreptitiously peek sideways at him.

“Penny for yer thoughts, Galahad?” David finally blurts, after they turn a corner on the path they’re in.

“Honestly? Just trying my best to follow this trail, at the moment. I trust you’re doing the same, Wallace,” Eggsy replies, mechanically, shutting David completely off.

David furrows his brow and looks away from Eggsy for a second. _Fuck you, then_.

An irresistible, almost magnetic force takes control of him right after, however, and he focuses back on the man on his right, who looks to have a literal storm rumbling inside him: Eggsy’s the picture of thunder and lightning, annoyance and determination—sharp features strained and confident stride, his attitude a mixture of _I wish I had a license to kill you_, and _let’s get this gobshite over with_.

_None this would have happened if you hadn’t cocked both Sweden and Finland up the way you did. I know it, you know it, we all know it. Fucking take responsibility for your actions, sweetheart. This is Clansman, not your coven of wimpy excuses for spies, daddy’s boy._

“Alright, that’s enough. Stop it,” Eggsy says, sharply, abruptly stopping in his tracks.

David is taken aback. “Stop what?” He stills as well, a couple of steps ahead of Eggsy, and turns to face him properly.

“I can feel you looking at me, and I can hear you blaming me for this utter mess we’re in.”

“Had no idea you could read minds, Galahad. What exactly makes ye guess that’s what I was thinking of? D’you have a pocket Cerebro somewhere that I might have missed?”

Eggsy scoffs. “Oh, _please_. I feel like I know this side of you well enough, by now.” He pauses, probably waiting for David to snap back. Bizarrely enough, David finds he hasn’t got the words nor the energy for it—his usual _bad faith_. “I know you’re not _that_ thick, Wallace. Very far up your own arse, sure, but thick? I don’t think so.”

David opens his mouth to retort, but Eggsy anticipates him: he takes a step closer and grabs David by the shoulders, shaking him lightly. “Wake the fuck up, mate: we’ve _both_ behaved like a couple of useless gits, lately, and Lord knows we’ve deserved this forced escapade to Bumfuck, Aberdeenshire. Like I said, though: dunno about you, but I’d very much like to _keep_ my job.”

David nods. Eggsy smirks triumphantly. “Thought so. Then, what d’you say we try working together to get to the end of whatever the fuck our sick-in-the-head handlers have decided to put us through, instead of continuing to look for ways to sabotage ourselves?”

Eggsy’s sea green gaze is hard and serious but, David realises, also very transparent. So transparent, in fact, that David can effortlessly read in it how completely genuine the man is being, and how much he really does care about the outcome of this daft video-game side-quest they’ve both begrudgingly found themselves on. How important it is that this partnership works—not only for his career and Kingsman’s reputation, but also as a personal accomplishment. He looks open and vulnerable like no-one has dared to be around David for _years_. _The last time something like this happened on a mission_ —

_No, that’s quite alright, thank you. Don’t need to go there again—not now, and possibly not ever._

“Alright, Galahad,” David concedes, with a small smile. “Let’s try it your way, then. See if we get anywhere. Now, may I suggest you keep yer hands to yourself, and we crack on with this? _Gorgeous_ day for it,” he adds, sarcastic, turning his gaze to the mounds of dark clouds overhead.

When Eggsy nods, satisfied, and peels his palm off David’s deltoids, David gets the weirdest feeling of loss. “Copy that. Knew you were a good ‘un, deep down. Also, for the last time, Wallace: it’s _Eggsy_. Do try to keep up, old boy.”

“Will do. _Eggsy_.”

*

**_Hike to the Hutchinson Memorial Hut_ **

**_Ben Macdui Eastern Pass, 8.45 AM. 1.25 hours remaining._ **

As they make their way down the east side of the mountain the light snow from the summit slowly transitions to a drizzling icy rain, creating rivers of water to run down the muddy and icy trails leaving a trail of slippery areas that David is careful picking his way around. David, who is leading the way, can hear Eggsy cursing softly under his breath as he skids and slides on rocks and hidden patches of ice, as well as the movements of Eggsy’s windmilling arms jerking the chain between them as he fights to right himself. 

David wipes the cold lines of precipitation from his face, once again extremely grateful for his thermals as he feels yet another droplet of icy water roll down his neck, and rolls his eyes at the umpteenth jerk on his wrist, bracing himself against the backwards pull against his centre of gravity. While it seems that their lovely quartermasters have thoughtfully provided them with appropriate clothing for the current conditions, they did neglect to provide them with any actual mountaineering gear. Hence, they have no hiking poles or crampons to steady themselves on the uneven and frankly treacherous downhill slope, still obviously snow-covered and icy at this altitude in April. If Eggsy doesn’t get himself together soon, they’re both going to end up dead in the bottom of a ravine or broken at the base of the mountain. _Where is all of that catlike grace he had back in Finland?_ Shaking his head, David turns his attention back to his partner, who is once again balanced and bridging the distance between them.

“Doin’ okay, Eggsy?” David asks, probably for the fifteenth time in the last ten minutes. Eggsy gives a grunt of confirmation from behind him, same as the last three check-ins. David grins to himself—the man obviously hasn’t spent a lot of time in the mountains, has he?

“Couldn’t have given us a fucking brolly or nothing?” Eggsy gripes petulantly under his breath. 

David is agog. _Who in their right mind would bring a fucking umbrella with them on a mountain hike?_

“What is it with you and yer fecking umbrella obsession, London Boy?” David questions incredulously, before noticing the slight tinge of dickishness in his voice and hurriedly rephrasing. “I mean—I get that it’s a neat gadget and all, but it’s just a _gadget_ , and Clansman has fantastic options too.”

There are a few beats of silence before Eggsy’s voice grits out, “It were my mentor’s favourite weapon, all right? And he died just before I was made an agent—or so we thought at the time—so I guess I just have what you might call an _unhealthy attachment_ to it. Satisfied?”

David stops dead for a moment and turns to look at Eggsy, finding him studiously keeping his gaze fixed on the ground, twin spots of red burning on his cheeks. _There is definitely more to this story than meets the eye, methinks._ David is _certain_ of it. This mentor of Eggsy’s who ‘died’ can only be one person, seeing as it had been big news in the agency that the previous Galahad had been presumed dead in Kentucky several years prior, just before the Valentine’s Day massacre, and had come back (minus an eye) a year later. And it is quite obvious—to David at least—particularly given the phone call with the present Arthur that he overheard, that the previous Galahad was _much more_ than a mentor to the present one. However, David decides to drop the subject, for now, as he’s not one hundred percent sure how he feels about it. 

“Shouldn’t be too much longer yet on the actual mountain, I don’t think,” he says, pointedly ignoring Eggsy’s response about the umbrella instead, and turning back to the trail. 

As predicted, no more than ten minutes later, the ground seems to level out a bit and the rain appears to be mercifully lifting as they make their way along a path leading further east along the shores of Loch Etchachan. They continue to follow the trail that makes its way along the burn feeding into the loch, and keep going for twenty minutes or so, until David spies a wooden structure in the distance. _That must be it_ , he thinks to himself. 

“Eggsy,” he calls, “up ahead.” He gestures towards the building with his chin. 

“Oh, thank fuck,” Eggsy breathes out. 

“Don’t celebrate yet—we don’ actually know what we’re up against, here.”

Eggsy just raises an eyebrow at him. “You seriously think Hume and Merlin are paying guys to take us out, on top of dropping us on top of a mountain?” 

“You never know,” David retorts. “Especially with those two. Luck favours the prepared, and all that.”

Eggsy snorts in response. “ _The Incredibles_ , bruv? Really? I didn’t take you for the animated movie type.”

“Great wisdom can be found in animated films. Plus, I quite enjoy them, when—” He pauses, thinking briefly of Ella and Charlie and quickly amends, before he gives anything away, “—when I actually get around tae watching them.”

Eggsy’s look in response is skeptical, but he just nods in response and gives David a small smile. As they approach the wooden hut—David really can’t be any more charitable than that in describing the structure—they see a dark, curly head peek out the door, and an arm come up and wave. 

“Hello lads!” she calls. “You the fellas from Glenglassaugh on the mountain bootcamp exercise?”

They turn to look at each other in shocked resignation. _Is that what Hume is passing this ridiculousness off as? I wonder how he explained away the shackles,_ he thinks to himself with a low chuckle. The sound prompts Eggsy to shoot him a look that clearly says, ‘ _What the hell is so funny?’_ , but David declines to respond to that, even just silently, and just urges him up the path and closer to the Park Ranger. 

“Guilty as charged ma’am,” David says with a charming smile. “We were told our bosses left a little something with you for us?”

“Yes indeed!” her voice is incredibly chipper for a woman who has obviously had to make her way into this remote cabin before they did this morning. “Your bosses left yer gear here, but they said that ye had spent the night out in the open, so I took the liberty of making you both a cuppa. I’m sure you could probably use it,” she said smiling kindly at them. 

“Thank you,” Eggsy cuts in before David can get a word in edgewise. “A cuppa sounds absolutely lovely.”

“Would you mind if we took a look at what was left for us?” David inquired, trying to refocus the derailed conversation. “I’m afraid our employer wasn’t terribly forthcoming with details as to what to expect here.”

“Oh, of course!” she exclaims, pouring a couple of mugs of tea. “It’s just over there on the bunk, love.” She gestures to the other side of the tiny cabin where two medium sized rucksacks lay. She presses a cup of tea into his hands. “Sorry, there isn’t anything out here but sugar. Would you like some?” 

David shakes his head. “No, thank you,” he murmurs, giving her a small smile before turning to look at the packs on the bed. He walks over, chain unspooling between them as he stretches the few steps across the space, half listening as Galahad continues to natter with the Ranger. David quickly opens the first pack and digs through it. He finds basic survival gear—food packets and a few snacks, camp stove, tent, sleeping bag, and a few more essentials: all in all, not enough to make him believe they will be stuck in the park for a long time. However, knowing Hume as well as he does, and from what he can glean of Merlin’s personality, David is painfully aware that this certainly won’t be a walk in the park, no pun intended.

Quickly doing another inventory of both bags, he concludes that there are no further instructions or obvious hidden messages inside, so he turns his attention back to Galahad and the Ranger, who are still chatting and sipping from their mugs. 

“I’m sorry,” David says cutting Eggsy off mid-sentence. “Was there anything else left for us? Any instructions or a map?” he presses.

“ _Excuse me_ , Wally. That was incredibly rude.” Galahad’s face says it all: the best way to describe it would be _mock outrage_ , David supposes. “And if you had been paying Sarah any attention at all, you would already know the answer,” he continues, sweeping his hand to show the map on the table in front of him. “We have seven hours to complete the approximately eighteen miles between us and Cock Bridge, _don’t even_ —” he threatens with a side eye to Sarah.

“ _Eighteen_ miles?” David parrots back, floored. 

Eggsy flashes him a sardonic grin. “First checkpoint of five, if these instructions are to be believed.” He turns back to Sarah. “Sorry, love. You were just about to tell me about our time limits?” 

David, who was about to open his mouth to interrupt, yet again, promptly decides to zip it and just listen.

“Oh right!” Sarah exclaims with a bright smile. “Your bosses told me that you have thirty-six hours from when they called this morning, to make it back to the distillery. But between now and then you have a bit of a scavenger hunt. You will have a time limit to get yourself to each checkpoint—which will not be disclosed to you until you find what you’re looking for, take a photo, and send it back to your head office.” She looks so thrilled to be a part of this she is positively quivering. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” David says with a soft smile. “Is there anything else we need to know before we get going? Any particular landmarks we should be lookin out for in—” David tries his best not to hesitate too much, "Cock Bridge?"

She nods fervently. “Oh, definitely! Try Corgarff Castle, that looks like a great place to start," she advises, chipper. "Also, can I just say, boys: this is definitely the most interesting workplace activity I have ever seen! Your bosses must be super exciting and outdoorsy! Although, the handcuffs _are_ a wee bit odd,” she says with a bemused look on her face. “But I suppose it’s what you guys signed up for, eh? Who am I to judge?” She laughs gaily, and David and Eggsy both attempt to chuckle along with her. _Fucking Hume_ , David fumes silently to himself, all the while sparing a glance at his partner and seeing a similar murderous glint in his eye, too. 

“Well darlin’, we best be off,” Eggsy states as he rises from the table, quickly gathering the maps and printed instructions. He flashes Sarah an absolutely heart-melting smile—not that David cares or even takes any notice of it, of course. “Thank you so much for meeting us here, and for the tea. It was very appreciated.”

David and Eggsy make their way over to the bunk, stowing the papers and hauling the packs carefully onto their backs, careful to avoid tangling the chain between them. Thank fuck the straps on the pack are fitted with quick-release buckles, or this would be nigh on impossible to do: it is already going to be complex enough as it is without having to contort themselves through straps every time they want to take the bloody things off. 

Everything sorted and settled, David and Eggsy once again set out on the path, waving a quick goodbye and calling out their thanks to Sarah. They are at once sad and elated to be back on their way as they continue to wind their way south along the burn, once again making their way towards what the map says is trail 207, that will then loop them north again and meet up with their desired trail 212—express to Cock Bridge. _Bloody Cock Bridge, it absolutely figures. Hume is a child._

Contrary to what David had anticipated, the trek from the cabin is long and hard—harder even than their descent from Ben Macdui. The ground is incredibly uneven and treacherous in places; certainly not a leisurely walk in the countryside, by any stretch. And yet, regardless of the difficulty of the terrain, David is quite frankly enjoying himself. Trail walking is the sort of activity he and his father have always shared a passion for. As a result, David spends a good chunk of the hike musing and fantasising to himself about maybe convincing Vicky to allow him to bring the kids up here and take them out himself. This is absolutely the sort of thing he would love to share with Ella and Charlie—maybe in the future, if all goes well.

His thoughts are cut short by a violent tug on his restrained wrist and a bit of a clatter. Looking behind him, David sees Eggsy flat on his back, covered in dust and a mess of loose stone from the path. He sniggers.

“All right?” he asks, trying to choke down a laugh. 

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up,” Eggsy replies, annoyed, perfunctorily wiping dirt off himself.

“How is it possible that you were able to land on your feet, graceful as a cat, back in Finland; all while being blown out of that building, but you can’t manage to walk down a slope without falling on your arse?” David responds finally voicing his thoughts from earlier up on the mountain, still chuckling.

Eggsy throws him a dirty look. “Not had much cause for mountaineering and hiking growing up in London, mate. Can do flips and land on my feet, easy as you please, but loose footing on a mountainside is a bit out of the realm of my experience.” 

David takes pity on him and holds out a hand to haul him back to his feet, which Eggsy seems to take without any reluctance. Seems they really _are_ making progress. 

“Just a wee bit more on the downhill stretch, then we should be on relatively flat ground,” David assures him. “We should be able to pick up the pace a bit more then too. I want to make good time getting to the castle. We need to be sure we have enough time to actually find whatever bullshit Hume and Merlin have hidden for us.”

Eggsy, who is brushing off more dirt and bits of debris, looks up at him and gives him a tight nod of agreement. 

“Let’s get a move on, then.”

*

**_Task I: Cock Bridge_**

**_Trail 212, 11:28 AM. 5.5 hours remaining._ **

As it turns out, trail 212 runs along the River Avon and, while still a challenging walk, it’s not as tricky as coming down a mountain. Thankfully, this means that they (read: Eggsy) are both more or less able to stay on their feet most of the time. The added complication of being tied together has done neither of them any favours, however, as they are constantly tugging at the chain between them and pulling each other off balance. Really not one of their quartermasters’ better ideas. _Fucking dangerous is what this is._

As the hour draws closer to midday, they begin to happen upon more and more people along the trail. David and Eggsy exchange nods and quick greetings with the other hikers, but equally, by unspoken agreement and keen to keep a low profile, they do their utmost to not attract attention to themselves: in part as they have no idea how long the walk to Corgarff Castle will actually take them, and also to avoid the inevitable pointed questions about why they’re quite literally tied together. 

Unfortunately, their ‘luck’ (so to speak) seems to run out in the early afternoon, just as they are taking a quick breather by the side of the river. Eggsy has just gone to refill his canteen with water and David is perched on a nearby rock, chain taut between them at almost the maximum length and shining brilliantly in the sun and catching the eye of two hikers making their way past. 

“Hey! You there, are you alright?” one of them calls, waving to catch their attention all while notably not making a move any nearer. Eggsy looks up from where he’s standing at the river and waves to the ladies, flashing them a charming smile. _Damn,_ David thinks to himself. _No worries with this one at all._ He can feel the charm oozing off Eggsy like a wave. _These lassies don’t stand a fucking chance._

“Just perfect,” Eggsy says, flashing a toothy and flirty grin. “How are you ladies doing on this fine day, enjoying your hike?”

“It’s great!” the other one pipes up. “We just noticed that you guys were tied together or something and wanted to know if you needed any help?” 

Eggsy laughs. “Thank you ever so much for the concern, darlings, but I’m afraid this is completely voluntary.” Eggsy gazes over at David with a positively gooey expression. 

_Oh, fuck no. What’s he going to blab about now?_

“Just got hitched, didn’t we? Thought it would be a great idea if we got shackled for real for our honeymoon hiking adventure. Super romantic, isn’t it?” Eggsy comes up next to David and draws his resisting body, mouth positively close to squawking wordlessly, close to him in a sideways half-hug. 

The girls’ faces fall dramatically. “O-oh, con-congratulations. That’s so… wonderful!” One of them finally squeaks out. 

David watches them both continue to call out their congratulations and ‘nice to meet you’s and ‘enjoy the honeymoon’ while they beat a hasty retreat. _Not bad, after all_ , David thinks to himself as he watches the women disappear down the path. Definitely a much shorter interaction than he had initially anticipated, a very effective shutdown of uncalled-for human contact, indeed. David figures this one actually merits some appreciation for his colleague’s quick thinking. 

“That was nicely done, Eggsy,” he praises quietly. “I thought ye’d gone mad there, for a moment—but that was incredibly neat.”

Eggsy just grins at him. “No thanks required; I know we have to be on our way. Least I could do.” He pauses, then grins mischievously. “Also, it was completely worth it for the look on your face when you realised what I had said.” Eggsy starts laughing. 

David can’t help himself, he starts to chuckle too. “Come on then, let’s continue. Before we actually get sacked.”

*

**_Task I: Cock Bridge_**

**_Corgarff Castle, 2:37 PM. 1.5 hours remaining._ **

Several agonising hours after setting out onto their little _adventure_ , Eggsy and David finally make the final turn onto the lane to Corgarff Castle. The white-washed walls of the keep jutting out from the lush green landscape are a striking view, indeed.

“Well, there it is,” David says. “What’s next?”

Eggsy slings his rucksack off his shoulder and fishes around in one of the pockets, drawing out an envelope. “Here we are,” he says, drawing out some papers and handing the top one to David. “Some instructions from the puppeteers.” 

David grabs the proffered paper and unfolds it, reading the scant lines quickly. “Not giving us much to go on, are they?”

“I’d imagine they weren’t feeling particularly charitable towards us when they put this together, Wally. And who can blame them? We were being complete arses.” He pauses. “Well, _you_ still are, sometimes,” he adds, teasingly. 

“Oh, kindly fuck right off,” David retorts without any actual heat. It feels kind of queer, this new state of mind: he has no real animosity towards Eggsy anymore. He’s able to see the positive sides of him, somehow. Eggsy seems like a good lad, quick on his feet and, when they aren’t completely at odds with each other, even a decent sense of humour. _Maybe this will actually work out. If we can get through the next couple days, that is._

“They’ve also left us a tenner and a £2 coin. Admission to the castle, maybe? Or maybe they have a café—that would be so _nice_.” Eggsy has a dreamy expression on his face as he seemingly floats off on a daydream of something good, possibly warm to eat or drink— although what he might find in a castle cafe that is so appetising is beyond David’s ken. 

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up too high. I doubt this place has a bog or even just running water, for that matter—let alone a café.” 

Eggsy looks distinctly put out. “Well, then I guess the dosh is for entry? Not much else would make sense. What do the instructions say?”

David looks again at the lines of text on the paper in front of him. “Not much to go on, I’m afraid. We have until 4 PM to find the Clansman sigil and the hidden talisman, take a photo and send it to them with the mobile. The next set of instructions will be available then.”

“I reckon we might as well go inside, then, and start looking.”

“After you, old sport,” David says, with a mock courtly bow, ushering Eggsy ahead of him and through the kissing gate that separates them from the white stone walls ahead. 

*

**_Task I: Cock Bridge_**

**_Corgarff Castle, 3 PM. 1 hour remaining_ **

As it turns out, it costs exactly £12 for two adults to enter the castle. Eggsy quickly hands over the money to the man at the till and they are waved through to begin wandering about. David quickly notes the whisky still on the ground floor and indicates the large item with a side nod of his head. 

“What do you think? Too obvious?”

“I’d say, a bit. And I don’t see anything that would indicate Clansman affiliation,” Eggsy responds with a considering glance at the still as they do a quick walk around it. “Let’s take a quick look around the rest of this place, and if we can’t find anything let’s check it out a bit more on our way out. Any objections?”

“Agreed. Alright, let’s move it, then. We’re running out of time.”

David gets more and more discouraged the more they poke about the castle. There is quite literally nothing there to find. The interior, like the exterior, is largely white-washed and stuffed with bric-a-brac and other period-appropriate nonsense, or bare stone and dingy, and staged with minimal trappings. The diversity and clutter, while lovely for a tourist visit, means that it would be a lot more difficult to hide a Clansman sigil. They do their best to make quick work of thoroughly checking the rooms including the walls, floors, ceilings and even under furniture, without any success whatsoever. 

Needless to say, they draw some confused looks from the other tourists and even the roaming staffers in the building, not only because of their strange behaviour and rushed movements, but also because they’re fucking shackled together and keep forgetting, accidentally pulling at each other when they get too far apart. 

“Can we help you gentlemen with something?” a voice behind them interrupts, at some point. David and Eggsy turn to face a tall man in period clothes—most likely a castle staffer, who looks concerned and a tad irked. “We’ve had several concerned reports from other guests about the two of you.”

Eggsy and David look at each other quickly, David trying desperately to formulate a plan that won’t have them out on their collective ear before they manage to find what they’re looking for. 

“We—” David coughs and then brightens, pulling out the cell phone and flipping it open. “We’re doing a photo-scavenger hunt!” he exclaims in triumph, before realising how _idiotic_ he sounds and toning it right down. “I apologise for any disruptions or distress we might have caused your other patrons, sir.”

“We’ll do our best to be a bit more circumspect going forward,” Eggsy assures the man with a charming smile. “And I apologize for my partner’s enthusiasm, too: we’re working on a bit of a time constraint, so he’s touch overzealous.” 

David scowls and shoots him a dirty look. _You want to play that game, eh?_ Sadly, his vengeful musings are cut short before he can muster a good comeback for his so-called partner. The castle staffer, casting a very uncertain glance at their chain responds, “Understandable, those photo-scavenger hunts can get very competitive, but please be mindful of the other patrons, or you will be asked tae leave.”

“Understood, guv. Best behaviour, we promise!” Eggsy says in an earnest tone that almost mimics crossing his heart with his finger. “We’re almost done inside, anyhow, not to worry. We’ll be out of everyone’s hair soon.” 

“See that ye are, but do enjoy the rest of your visit to Corgarff Castle,” the man says with a nod, before moving off again. 

“Not bad at thinking on your feet either, eh, Wally?” Eggsy teases, elbowing him gently in the ribs. “Now, we really do need to get a move on. I don’t think it’s in here, do you?” 

David, rubbing his ribs absently, shakes his head agreeing with Eggsy’s assessment. “Shall we re-check the still once more before doing a quick walk-about outside, then?”

“Quick, quick. Let’s do it.”

They make their way down the steps, being extra careful not to trip and send them both tumbling to the bottom. When they reach the ground level, they efficiently make their way to the still, once again slowly circling it to make sure there was nothing that they had missed the first go round. 

“I don’t see anything, do you?” Eggsy says, in an uncertain tone. 

“No, and that worries me. We’ve been through this castle pretty well top to bottom, and we haven’t seen even the slightest indication—past this still—that Clansman might have anything to do with this property.” David himself feels very uncertain and wrong footed all of a sudden. _Has Hume set us up to fail? He wouldn’t, though, would he?_

“Well let’s have a quick look around outside,” Eggsy says, briskly, not sounding as discouraged as David feels. “You keep your eyes waist height down to the ground and I’ll look further up. If we don’t see anything in the next ten minutes, I’d say our chances of actually getting this one in the bag are pretty close to shot.”

After about five minutes of scanning the ground and walls of the keep, Eggsy thinks he might have spotted something on one of the eastern walls. David carefully holds still as close to the wall as he can, carefully unspooling the chain to its max and locking it there. 

“Are you sure ye’re good to climb up there?” he asks Eggsy with a touch of anxiety, which he is trying desperately to hide. “It’s not exactly an ideal climbing wall.”

“No worries, bruv. I’ve scaled less welcoming walls than this one, although, granted never while chained by the wrist to someone on the ground.” He shrugs and reaches out, hauling himself as far up the wall as he can, arm muscles clenching and bunching under his clothes. _Now that’s a sight I wouldn’t say no to._ It gets even better when Eggsy starts to use his legs to drive himself up the wall: David can’t help but have his gaze drawn to the man’s extremely round, very attractive arse. He feels bad for staring for a wee second, and then very quickly doesn’t. After all, who can blame him? It’s quite literally in his face, at the moment, and it’s so firm and lovely, _wonder what it’d be like to smack it—_

“Hey! You there!” someone shouts. “Get down off that wall!”

“Fuck! Eggsy, get down, now!” David hisses, turning to his left and spotting a man in a blue uniform. “Security incoming.”

“Two seconds, mate! I think I’ve found something!” Eggsy replies, urgently, wiggling to get himself further up still.

“Bloody well hurry up! We’re definitely going to get fired if we can’t talk our way out of this one and actually get arrested or something.”

“No, we won’t: Merlin and Hume would probably just find it funny,” Eggsy retorts. David snorts disbelievingly in response, but is equally relieved to see that Eggsy is slowly making his way down the wall. His feet touch the ground just as the security guard draws level with them. _Fuck me, this man doesn’t look pleased at all, now, does he?_ David muses to himself. _This is likely to go very poorly for us._

“What the hell were you doing climbing up the walls? This is a _scheduled monument_! I should have you arrested!” the guard fumes. “In fact, since I’m pretty sure you’re the two fellas I’ve already heard about for causing a stir inside, I’m more than inclined tae do so! What do you two think you’re doing?”

“I’m so sorry, sir,” Eggsy responds. “I wasn’t even thinking about the fact that this is a monument—silly me,” he delivers, with an adorable coy smile that makes him look like a reprimanded puppy dog. “I thought I’d heard some other blokes talking about standing stones over to the east and thought I might be able to see them from here. I promise, it wasn’t my intention to cause any damage.”

 _Standing stones?_ David muses to himself with a shocked look at Eggsy. _Why didn’t he mention them before? Fuck, we’ve been looking in the wrong place!_

“That very well may be, laddie, but I can’t allow you both tae continue being so disruptive. I am asking you to leave now, and not come back. Else, I may very well call the authorities.” The security guard scowls at them darkly, then grabs them each by one arm, marching them towards the exit. He escorts them all the way to the kissing gate that marks the edge of the property, giving them a harder shove than strictly necessary. They’ve pissed someone off, alright.

“Now begone with you both—and if I see either of you back here, you won’t be liking the consequences,” he huffs out and watches them with an eagle eye as they wind their way through the gate and back down the trail. 

Once they are clear of the castle and the guard has retreated, David turns to Eggsy, hitting him lightly across the back of the head. “You numpty! Why didn’t you tell me about the standing stones? We’ve been wasting our fucking time here at the castle!”

“Ow! You brute, no need to hit me,” he says rubbing his head in mock pain. “I thought you knew? I heard those other tourists talking about them when we first got here, and it seemed like as good an excuse as any to feed that security guard, and I could see them off in the distance from the wall. They’re maybe half a mile from here to the east? Over by the town.”

“Fuck, we’d better hurry then. We’re running out of time,” David says, tightening the straps on his rucksack. Eggsy nods, adjusting his own. They set off at a trot, David hoping with all his heart that he hasn’t just steered them completely wrong. 

They make it to the standing stones in good time; mercifully, they are all but deserted, the last tourists just leaving as they jog up. As soon as they are completely clear, David looks to Eggsy and gives him a hard look. 

“How much time do we have left?”

“Maybe ten minutes?” Eggsy says uncertainty, checking the time on the mobile. 

“Right. Well, let’s check on the stones first, then at the base of them. It could be anything—keep an open mind,” David all but barks out the orders like a drill sergeant, pleased to see Eggsy immediately getting to work. 

Within five minutes, they locate the weathered sigil on a rectangular rock at the base of one of the standing stones. David really struggles not to howl in triumph, at that. 

“Any ideas on what next?” Eggsy asks, confused. “I thought there was supposed to be a talisman of some sort.”

David, moving in closer, examines the rock intently. _Are those grooves?_ he wonders, furrowing his brow and reaching out toward the rock. He sticks his fingernails into the markings and yanks, but nothing seems to happen. 

“Wait!” Eggsy stops him from tugging at the stone again. “This is all about working together, right? There is no way that they would have set this up so that only one of us could open this by ourselves. Would defeat the point.”

 _Fuck_ , David feels stupid. That should have been abundantly obvious. Hume and Merlin, while getting their own sadistic fun out of this excursion, certainly wouldn’t have set this up without ensuring that they continued to work together—right to the last moment. _Good thing we actually are sort of getting along._

“Maybe if we both try it together?” Eggsy asks, “Maybe they have some sort of finger scanner rigged up on top or even in the groove there. If I know Merlin at all, it’s got to be something like that. I can’t hazard a guess about Hume, but I’m guessing they’ve got to be somewhat similar.” He shrugs. “Just a guess.”

“Seems likely,” David concedes. “Let’s give it a go.” 

They each grasp a corner of the stone and pull. Nothing happens. 

“Shit.” Eggsy breathes out. “I fucking thought we had it.”

“Wait.” David thinks hard. Then he snaps his fingers. How has he been so dim and slow? The solution is right in front of them, and has been the entire fucking day. “The fucking shackles!” he exclaims. “We just have tae both use the hand that is bound and it should work. I bet you anything.”

Eggsy’s eyes widen in understanding. “Fuck, how did we miss it? Right there in our faces all day, making our lives a fucking misery.”

They both reach out the hands that are bound together and touch the stone, causing a low light to emanate from the bracelets and the sigil on the rock before the markings along the grooves deepen and finally crack open to reveal a hollow interior and a— _fuck, that looks like one of the pocket squares from the shop!_

Eggsy grabs for it first. “Aces! A hanky! Been needing one of these for a while now,” he says, before drawing it up to his face and covering his nose with it. David looks on in dawning horror. 

“No! You fucking imbecile! That’s a Harris Tweed pocket square and we need tae take a picture and send it back before you destroy it, ye absolute _heathen_!”

Eggsy sucks in a deep breath as he ignores David’s words and he prepares to blow his nose into a £50 pocket square, before breaking into torrents of laughter. 

“The look on your fucking face,” he howls. “Absolute fucking gold!”

David scowls in response. “Yeah, yeah, ye’re a comedic genius, all right. Let’s get this picture over and done with, shall we? We’re still running on a clock, don’t forget.”

Eggsy visibly calms himself down, barely. “Alright, let’s do this.” He pauses. “Can I please? For the photo at least?” he pleads. “I know we won’t be able to see the look on Merlin’s face, but I can imagine it, and it’s even better than yours just was.”

“Fine,” David grumbles, secretly just as keen to see Hume’s face as it seems Eggsy is to see Merlin’s. Desecrating Harris Tweed is a crime in some parts, and it would be worth it if they could scrounge up some video footage when they get back to HQ. _If_ they make it back to HQ, he quickly corrects himself. But best not to think of that.

Eggsy draws in closer and once again raises the pocket square to his nose, pinching it over the bridge while David holds out the mobile to snap a photo. 

“Alright, I think we’ve got it. Finally.” He quickly attaches it to a message and sends it off with literally moments to spare. The phone immediately starts buzzing in his hand. David raises the phone to his ear, not even bothering with a greeting. 

“You fuckers think you’re so funny, do you?” Hume’s voice spills across the line.

“No more than you two do, I would imagine,” David says, his tone even, poorly concealing his wolfish grin.

“I hope you had a great tour of the castle. Beautiful restoration at Corgarff, wasn’t it?”

David seethes, doing his best not to let Hume hear his anger. “Was it? We were slightly distracted with a fucking red herring from the two of your and didn’t quite get to enjoy it.”

Hume sniggers. _The bastard_. “Ah, but you pulled through and figured it out, just in time! Now,” he continues, “The next checkpoint is the Lecht Mine, about five miles due north. You have three hours.”

The line goes dead. 

_Arsehole._

Eggsy looks at him quizzically, not much conversation to go off from this side. “Where to next?”

“The Lecht Mine, I believe Hume said? Apparently, it’s five miles north of here. Let’s grab the map and make sure we know where we’re going. We have three hours.”

Eggsy nods and pulls the papers from his rucksack. It’s once again time to get to work.

_God save us, and all that._

**_END OF PART I_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! Here we are, at the end of part I. We hope you've all enjoyed the beginning of this madness. We were thinking "video game side quest" the entire time, and we were definitely thinking Tomb Raider. Sorry not sorry. *angel face emoji*
> 
> As promised, here is the map for the boys' day 1 itinerary:
> 
> We hope this is helpful!
> 
> Please let us know what you thought of this, and see you soon(er than usual) for part II!
> 
> Love,
> 
> M and C xx


	8. VI. Deus Ex Montibus - II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Hey, it’s the Honeymoon Bondage Guys!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi girls and gays! We're back as promised, not leaving you hanging *too* much this week.
> 
> We really hope you enjoy the second part of our little adventure. Definitely the "To" part in "Idiots To Lovers"; innit?
> 
> (P.S.: don't forget **[our weekly playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3BBWqSyVrMiFVc52zTCyak?si=WrWaa3HUSwykvVUjQfC3lQ)** , it's a really good one!)
> 
> See you later, pals.

_**VI. Deus Ex Montibus - II** _

**_Task II: Lecht Mine_** ****

**_A939, 4:33 PM. 2.5 hours remaining._ **

The walk to the mine is a relatively easy one. They only stop once, to quickly snap a selfie with the Cock Bridge road sign behind them while making rude gestures at the camera, and send it to Merlin and Hume. Half to be juvenile, half to show them that they indeed are getting along much better, thank you very much, and to possibly get the sadistic quartermasters in a sweeter disposition about this entire ordeal. 

As they quickly made their way away from Cock Bridge north along the A939, David starts to feel a kind of lightness to his step that he hasn’t experienced in a long time, especially considering they have already done a full day’s walking already and he should, by all rights be exhausted. Knocked out, abducted by their employers and dumped at the summit of a mountain—they should feel violated and betrayed, to be quite honest. 

“...doing alright, Wally?” a voice cuts through his inner musings. 

David shakes himself, once again trying not to snap at Eggsy about calling him ‘Wally’. _Maybe I should consider… No. I can’t,_ he thinks fiercely to himself. _What does it hurt if Eggsy knows who I really am, though?_

“...llace? _Wallace!_ ” David feels something shaking his shoulder and he snaps out of his inner monologue once again.

“What?” David retorts, before softening. “Sorry, got lost in thought for a wee moment there,” he adds, with a slight blush at his inattentiveness and overreaction. Eggsy gives him an odd look but seems to accept his apology. 

“Whatever you say, mate. You were lost in thought there for a lot longer than a _wee moment_ , though: I called your name about ten times.”

“It’s already been a fucking long day, Galahad. What do you want?” David’s short temper is coming out in full force. _Shit._

Eggsy scowls. “I _told you_ to call me Eggsy,” he snaps back. “And all I wanted to know is if you’re okay. But obviously you’re in fine form. I’ll just go back to my own life and leave you the fuck alone.”

“Eggsy…” David starts, abashed. “I apologise, I didn’t mean to go off on you like that. I was just thinking about this whole day we’ve had, and apparently it’s gotten to me.” 

Eggsy looks concerned again. “We can slow down, if you like? I’m pretty sure we’re making good time. I think we’ll be coming up on the Well of Lecht car park any moment now.”

David shakes his head. “No, I’m fine. We need to get this over and done with as soon as we can. Who knows when those sadistic fucks are going to throw another curve ball at us like they did at Corgarff? I don’t want to mess this up for both of us on my account. We should keep moving.”

Eggsy scowls again, having momentarily forgotten how much their quartermasters apparently have it out for them. “Right,” he agrees, before stopping completely and stopping David once again with a hand on his arm before looking him square in the eye. “But if you need to stop, we stop. Part of this whole teamwork thing is looking out for your partner’s wellbeing as well as your own. Neither of us will finish if one of us fails.” With that nugget of what David would have taken for trite condescending blather even just one day prior, he takes some comfort in the fact that Eggsy truly doesn’t seem to wish him ill, even with all the crap they have been puting each other through for weeks. 

_Look at us, finally maturing—a bit, at least,_ David thinks to himself with a snigger at their childish and reactionary antics. 

Not even five minutes later, they indeed start seeing signage for the Well of Lecht and the car park. They’re so close. It really is too bad that they’re so pressed for time: David would be quite content to take this hike for pleasure, and Eggsy hasn’t made for a terrible walking companion either, other than the utter disaster he was a few times on the side of the mountain. 

“Less than a mile from here to the Mine, isn’t it?” David queries, knowing Eggsy has been the one consulting their map for the most part. 

“Actually, according to the signage, it's a one mile round-trip. So we should be there in two shakes,” Eggsy says, peering intently at the sign by the side of the road. “We’re definitely well ahead of our projected schedule, we have well over an hour to get there and locate the next stone.”

“Still, we shouldn’t rest on our laurels,” David grumps. “No saying how impossible they’ve made this one.”

As they set off down the path toward the Mine, they come across a number of other hikers making their way along the path in either direction. David spares a glance at Eggsy, who is looking back at him with a similar concerned expression. This is slightly more traffic than he had anticipated, and it might make their search a bit more complex.

Among the sea of middle-aged, moderately overweight car tourists are also a number of serious hikers and day trippers. About halfway down the trail, they are stopped abruptly by a pair of very blond, California surfer-types decked to the nines in top-of the line hiking gear. 

“Hey, it’s the Honeymoon Bondage Guys!” one of them exclaims.

“What the actual _fuck_?” David hears Eggsy hiss from behind him. 

The two men draw level with them, giving them huge hugs and lifting them off the ground with a big belly laugh. 

“Fuck, dude, I thought those Laney and Lora chicks were totally pulling our legs with this. But here you are, two hot dudes actually _chained together_. I can barely believe it!” One of them crows with delight.

David spares another slightly bewildered glance at Eggsy, who looks back at him in embarrassed astonishment. _‘The lady hikers,’_ he mouths, aghast. Understanding dawns suddenly on him. David rolls his eyes internally. _Serves the idiot right. Fuck, but now what do we do? We need to keep moving._

The conversation has continued while David had the silent conversation with Eggsy and obviously had not suffered for their lack of participation.

“Totally hot chicks. Though, I’m not sure you guys were thinking about that.”

“Terribly sorry, _dudes_ , but I need to get my naughty husband up to the Mine entrance. So very nice to meet you both, have a nice day,” David says briskly, quite rudely pushing forward and all but dragging Eggsy past the two men. 

“Bye guys! Hope you enjoy Scotland!” Eggsy chirps back at them as he’s dragged away by the wrist like a recalcitrant child.

The two men guffaw loudly and cat-call suggestive innuendos, all the while waving at their retreating backs, seemingly not at all offended at being cut off so abruptly. 

David slows his pace ever so slightly once the two men are out of view and then stops, bending over his knees as he starts laughing uncontrollably. He can see Eggsy shifting awkwardly out of the corner of his eye. 

“Jesus fuck, I can’t believe that just happened.” David wheezes out between laughs. “Figures that little quip of yours would come back and bite us both in the arse.”

Eggsy is now grinning broadly. “I don’t know, mate. I don’t think you made it any better back there. If anything, these guys now have even more of a story to tell!”

David snorts and straightens. “At least it got us out of there with minimal disruption. And honestly what do we care if everyone thinks we’re randy S&M honeymooners? At least it gives us a somewhat reasonable cover story and no one is likely to remember our faces, just the fact that we’re tied together.”

Eggsy barks out a laugh at that. “Mate, you’re kidding yourself if you think anyone is forgetting your face in a hurry.” He pauses at that, a tinge of pink rising over his cheekbones. “Alright, enough gabbing, let’s get a move on. Daylight’s a-wastin’!”

Eggsy takes the lead this time and David follows bemusedly behind him. 

A very short walk later, they come upon a lovely stone building nestled in the valley between two large hills. It is quite a spectacular sight, if David were to be a judge of such things—but then again today has been a blur of beautiful Scottish scenery and buildings. He does so love his country, and being able to experience it like this would definitely be a treat, were it not for the underlying stress of the clock hanging over their heads. 

“Whoa,” Eggsy breathes out, grinding to a halt. “Scotland is bloody beautiful. I wish I could actually enjoy this,” he says, echoing David’s silent thoughts. 

He nods his head in agreement before once again redirecting their attention back to the puzzle at hand. “Do you think it’s going to be inside or outside?”

Eggsy tilts his head considering the character of his quartermaster. “If I were to guess, probably outside,” Eggsy concedes. “Merlin is a sentimental fuck, and he loves this country as much as any Scot, so I can only imagine he would prefer to be out in the wilds. Plus, if it makes it harder for me, all the better.”

“Fair enough,” David responds. “Let’s check outside first.”

Surprisingly enough, for the first time today, they are able to anticipate the actions of Merlin and Hume, and manage to track down the box within just five minutes of starting their search. The box is actually a stone on the side of the building, tucked up tight against the hill, rolling gently away from it toward the summit: cleverly hidden, but also almost undetectable by anyone who isn’t actively looking for it. 

“Eggsy!” David calls to his partner, who is about ten feet away examining the ground for clues. “Over here, I’ve got it.”

Eggsy makes his way over in three brisk strides, crouching down next to David. “I suppose it’s probably the same as the last one, yeah? We both touch it and it pops open?”

“I can only imagine,” David says with an eye roll. “Only thing these fucking shackles are good for.”

They both reach out their bound hands to touch the box—which, as expected, pops open. They quickly crane their heads forward and end up knocking each other hard in the forehead. 

“Fuck!”

“Ow!”

“Like a fucking comedy of errors around here, aren’t we?” Eggsy says rubbing his head. “Let’s have a look, then. What is it?”

David ducks his head back down, fingers grasping for the small item in the box. _A button?_

“You gotta be fucking shitting me,” Eggsy deadpans. “A _tartan_ button?” 

David shakes his head and keeps his mouth shut. There is no winning this one—even if he does remind Eggsy that, knowing who this came from, it could very well be a _Clansman_ button, and not at all ordinary. But the fact that the talisman is, once again, a tartan item, he is sure that he’s going to hear about again—repeatedly, and possibly for as long as it takes for this fool’s errand to be over and done with.

“Let’s just get this picture taken and get the fuck out of here, right? I’ll take whatever you want tae throw at me about a Scot’s obsession with tartan _after_ we’ve completed this.” He holds out the mobile to snap the shot. _Click._ Sent. “But also,” David adds, as an afterthought, “I’ll have you remember that Hume is English and _he_ most likely orchestrated all these lovely things—so what does that say about your English superiority now?” David asks arching an eyebrow.

Eggsy, stymied for once, just pouts. Quite adorably, in David’s opinion. 

The phone beeps once more. “Ah, here we go. Next up: the Hidden College of Scalan?” David says, with a confused look at the phone in his hand.

Eggsy, already drawing the map from his rucksack, unfolds it efficiently and lays it flat on the ground. “Here,” he says, pointing. “How much time have we got?”

“One hour, thirty minutes,” David replies, looking once again at the phone in his hand.

“Well, we’d better get a move on. It’s not too far, but we’re off the road and over these hills for the next bit, it’s definitely going to be tight.”

They set themselves to rights once again and set out. Two down, three to go.

*

**_Task III: The Hidden College of Scalan_ **

**_Glenlivet Estate Footpath, 6:37 PM. 1 hour remaining._ **

As it turns out, they have to backtrack about halfway down the trail to the car park to find the trail that leads up the hill and east towards Scalan. Thankfully, it isn’t much of an inconvenience, and they quickly put all of their concentration into the upward climb. As they yet again start to tire and their calves begin to really burn, they reach the crest of the hill. Looking down to see a patchwork of greenery, mountains, rivers and small settlements stretching out before them in every direction, David once more thanks his lucky stars that this is the place he gets to call home. 

By the time they finally make their way to the Hidden College of Scalan (which really isn’t so hidden at all, what with the bloody signage for it literally _everywhere_ ), it is getting close to dusk, the sun making its final descent for the day to the horizon and painting the sky deep orange and pink. It has taken a little over an hour to get from the Mine to the next checkpoint, leaving them with a scant thirty minutes to locate the Clansman stone and complete the third task for the day. Also, David can’t speak for Eggsy, but he’s starting to get hungry. Hiking all day long is gruelling work and they haven’t been taking much in the way of rest, both eager to see this through before sundown the next day. 

Glancing over at his partner, David can see the same exhaustion painted on Eggsy’s face as he’s sure is obvious on his own. Secret agents or no, twelve hours of hiking in the wilderness _really_ isn’t a piece of piss. 

“Where do you think it is, then?” Eggsy says, running a palm over his face and then stretching. “That building looks pretty busy. Lots of guys leaving to go out to that field over there.” He points, indicating the line of men exiting the building. “What’s this College even for? Doesn’t look like a school to me.”

“I think it’s a seminary,” David says. “Or at least it was, once upon a time. Not sure what it is anymore. It used to be little more than a ruin until about a year ago, restoration was just finished according to the signage.” He indicates the placard that they’re standing next to as they scope out the building, attempting to look like inconspicuous tourists. 

“Well,” Eggsy says, sighing regretfully. “Given how easy the last one was, I can’t imagine this one will be a walk in the park. What did the message say again?” He screws up his face slightly, trying to remember the exact wording of the message, while David rifles in his pockets, looking for the phone. 

“Here we go. Blah blah blah, time limit… _find the next mark at the pinnacle of faith, be wary, brother may be watching you_ ,” David reads out, then tries to puzzle through. “Pinnacle of faith. Must be making reference to some religious artifact or altar. Likely means _inside, I reckon_.”

“I think we’ve got our opportunity, then,” Eggsy says, once again indicating the men— _brothers, now doesn’t that make all sorts of sense_ —who have exited the building to the adjacent field. “Not sure what they’re up to right now, but this seems like our moment to get in and out undetected.”

“Let’s get up there from around the other side, to be sure no one sees us come in from the field, and then we will have to scope out the entrances. I can’t tell from here if there is another way in, or even windows on the other side. If there are, that will let us check inside first to make sure they’re all gone.”

Eggsy nods, then raises a questioning eyebrow. “And what happens if they aren’t?” 

With no spy gadgets and only their wits to fend with, this is certainly the question of the day. “We make it up, I suppose,” David replies, with a shrug. “It’s what we’ve been doing all day.”

“Well,” Eggsy says, examining the men retreating to the field and the size and shape of the building. “It doesn't look like they actually _live_ here: if we had all the time in the world, I would just suggest waiting until they leave for the night and then break in. But, seeing as we’re working on a bit of a tight schedule, we may just want to chance it now and see how far we get.”

David shoots him a sideways look, aghast. “How did they even make you an agent? I can see now that you’re excellent at thinking on your feet, but if you would just plan a little before barging in head first, you may not need all the fancy footwork and explosions.”

Eggsy smirks. “But what if I _like_ fancy footwork and explosions? Thinking on my feet has worked for me up until now, why change it?”

“Because if you actually have a Plan A, you still have that as a Plan B,” David says, shaking his head. 

“Well, at this point, if we don’t hurry up with the grand plan that you’re concocting, it looks like we’ll be stuck with my _fancy footwork and explosions_. As far as I can tell, we’ve less than fifteen minutes to get this done.” Eggsy looks both chastised and mildly triumphant at having seemingly gotten one over David.

“Let’s get closer and check out the points of access. We need to know if that door is the only way in,” David muses, while already slowly making his way closer to the building, Eggsy trailing along behind him, still slightly sour from their previous exchange. 

Having reached the near side of the building and made his way to the corner furthest from the main door, David goes to poke his head around the corner of the building to check to see if the coast is clear before proceeding around the building. Before he can do so, he is tugged violently back, a hand coming up to cover his mouth before he can let loose even so much as a grunt of surprise. 

“Shh!” Eggsy’s voice hisses in his ear. David stills and listens hard, only now hearing what Eggsy is hearing and stopping him from walking into. There are people moving toward them from the other side of the building. They hold completely still for several long moments. When it appears that the people around the corner are not coming any closer to them, Eggsy slowly peels his fingers from David’s mouth and shoots him an apologetic glance and a one-shouldered shrug, before stepping back a step and jerking his head a couple times in a clear indication for David to follow him. They retreat once again, back closer to the front entrance. Their options for entry, as well as their time, are growing sparse.

“Any new ideas, Mr. Man-with-a-plan?” Eggsy whispers into David’s ear from behind, his breath puffing warm onto cool flesh, making his skin prickle. He shakes it off and thinks quickly, trying to salvage something of his plans.

“At this point, front door is our only option. We can only hope that all of them are out of there, otherwise, we’ll be spotted immediately and likely thrown out on our ears. No one is to be inside the building during prayers.”

“For a second time today? No thanks,” Eggsy backs off yet again, trying to peer around the front of the building to see if anyone is about. “Looks to be all clear from here. Shall we give it a go?”

“Stroll in casually, I think. That way, if we get spotted on the way in, we can use the tourist excuse. Once we’re in there actually sneaking about is when we’ll run into real issues getting caught.”

Eggsy lifts his wrist and jangles the chain lightly. “You don’t think these are a bit conspicuous, sneaking or no?”

“We’ll just keep our hands close together while we walk in. That way, no one will notice them, and once we’re in there—if I’m guessing right—it will be quite dark, and no one will be looking hard enough to see them anyways.”

“Wally, are you asking to hold hands with me?” Eggsy coos, fluttering his eyelashes and smiling coquettishly, causing David to roll his eyes and smile. 

“Enough, we don’t have time for this,” he says, grasping Eggsy’s wiggling fingers and interlacing their hands. “Let’s go.” He tugs on Eggsy’s hand and leads him around the corner and through the open door, deftly avoiding the rope cordoning the entryway temporarily closed. 

“Well, that wasn’t terribly difficult,” Eggsy says, out of the corner of his mouth.

“Hush!” David hisses as he hustles them out of the doorway and into the shadows beyond, trying to keep their bodies towards the walls and away from the light spilling in through the entrance. His eyes widen in shock as he takes in the interior of the building. It is absolutely packed to the rafters with books. _Fuck. This isn’t going to be easy at all—and we only have ten minutes left. Double fuck._

“Shit!” Eggsy breathes out from his left side. David catches sight of the shadowy figure moving toward the door at the same time, and they quickly huddle closer together, bodies pressed tightly together from chest to thighs in the shadow of a bookshelf. _So close. Too close._

“I think that was the last one,” David says, casting a wary eye around the room, not seeing any additional movement. He carefully steps away from Eggsy, averting his eyes and scanning the shelves around them. “Since almost no walls are visible, what we’re looking for is probably on the shelves. Keep an eye out for anything that might be related to Clansman,” David instructs, eyes examining the spines of the books nearest them. 

Eggsy stretches out the chain, still keeping to the shadows as much as he can, but also starts pouring through the titles on the shelves ahead of him. “Most of these are religious texts,” he muses in a near whisper. “Nothing specifically to do with Clansman—unless you lot are somehow masquerading as some sort of religious organisation, as well as kiltmakers and distillers?”

“Very cute, Eggsy,” David retorts, “Eyes on the prize. We’ve got to get a move on.”

After about five minutes of anxiety-ridden searching through the bookshelves, and several near heart attacks when they are spooked into thinking they hear someone returning and alternatively trying to hit the floor or hiding behind giant oak furnishings, Eggsy finally cries out quietly in triumph. 

“I think I’ve got it!” he hisses, pulling a large tome off the shelf. David hurries over from where he was scanning through various titles about the history of the college. “Won’t open neither, no matter how much I tug, so I think we’re good to go.” He holds out the book to David, using the shackled one. 

David reaches out his hand and touches the cover of the leather and gold-embossed Bible with the Clansman crest pressed in, causing a blue-white flash of energy to race around the spine and pages. “Oh yeah, that’s it,” he breathes out. “Crack it open and let’s get out of here.”

Eggsy quickly flips the Bible open and David sees that it is in fact a secure box, holding two letters and a tartan flask. _Of fucking course it’s more tartan. Let’s just hope there’s booze inside that flask, at least._

He gathers the three items together and tucks them away in his rucksack, quickly closing the book and resetting it on the shelf in front of him. “Let’s get outside so we can take that picture and get it sent off, yeah?”

David nods in agreement and they make their way to the door, just as they hear approaching footsteps from without. David feels Eggsy grasp his hand and squeeze, pulling him closer.

“Babes! This place is so amazing! I can’t believe that all of this restoration was done so quickly! And all of these books?” Eggsy effuses loudly just as the brothers enter the room and stop in their tracks with a start.

“What are you two doing in here? The College is off-limits during prayer hour.” 

“Terribly sorry, sir, we didn’t mean any harm.” Eggsy’s voice is pleading. “We just saw the door was open and we had walked such a long way—and it’s our honeymoon!” he blathers, all while shooting David a fake besotted look, which David quickly attempts to mimic, while drawing up their intertwined hands to place a kiss to Eggsy’s knuckles. _Quick thinking, indeed._

The man is gruff but seems understanding. “Get along with you then. We’re locking up for the night. You’ll have to come back tomorrow if you want to get a tour.”

“Our apologies again, sir, for the disruption and the trespass. I can assure you it won’t happen again.” David says earnestly. “We’ll get out of your way and let you finish up with your duties.” He turns to Eggsy. “Come along, darling. We’ll have to come back another day.”

He quickly tugs Eggsy out the door and around the corner. As they finally come to a halt, a few yards away from the building, Eggsy is already pulling the items out of his rucksack and brandishing the flask. “I would make a comment about the tartan, but we don’t have the time right now. Where’s the mobile?”

David quickly fishes the device out of his pocket and pulls Eggsy closer, snapping the shot and sending it off, before breathing a sigh of relief. _That was too close, again._ _Why do Hume and Merlin keep doing this to us?_

They sink down into the grass surrounding the building, taking their first easy breath in what feels like days. “What does the letter say?” David says, leaning his head back against the wall behind him.

“There are two envelopes, actually,” Eggsy muses thoughtfully, handing one over to David. It is inscribed in blocky script. OPEN ME FIRST OR FACE THE CONSEQUENCES, making him chuckle out loud. 

“Probably best not to tempt fate by reading them out of order, given our luck,” David says, and Eggsy hums in agreement. He cracks the seal and pulls out the sheet of paper. 

_Wallace & Galahad, _

_Glad to see you’ve made it this far_ — _although we weren't certain you would. Take that as a compliment and, if you’re smart, also take the very generous opportunity to rest for the night. Otherwise, if you choose to continue, open the second envelope now._

_Beware: if you do open the second envelope, the clock will start on your next task immediately. Choose wisely._

_M &H _

“Well,” David says, “another one in the bag, eh? Well done us. Want to move on to the next?”

Eggsy shoots him a mildly exasperated look. Then, he glances at the slowly darkening sky, and finally at his watch. “Honestly? I think I’m good for the day, Wally. Not particularly keen on walking any more, are you? Plus, even if we do get to our next destination, it’ll be the middle of the bloody night, and good luck finding the ridiculous stone or whatever other piece of fuckery they left us then. Unless it glows in the dark—but I doubt either of our bosses will have been so kind as to make sure that's a thing, really.”

“Yeah, alright, agreed,” David is forced to concede. “Suppose a break won’t kill us.”

“Timing’s pretty good, y’know,” Eggsy observes, as they move away from the newly restored College of Scalan to avoid potentially getting chased off the premises by a small congregation of angry vicars-to-be. “If nothing goes wrong, we seem to be on track to finish with a couple of hours to spare. Chin up, Wally. We’re _killing_ it, mate.”

“Ah, but now you jinxed it, y’wee huddy,” David says, with no real spite in his voice, shoving Eggsy playfully while they walk.

They find a spot a few hundred yards away from the building that is sheltered by two very big trees, and agree to set up camp there. As soon as their rucksacks are on the ground and the tent is unpacked, a weird little game of what David would in any other circumstance be inclined to call _flirting_ starts happening without him even realising, at first.

The game involves David teasing Eggsy for not being able to put up a tent and asking him whether he’d be more inclined to cook instead, Eggsy flipping him off and actually giving him a good hand with the tent _and_ doing the cooking (which, in truth, just requires boiling some water) David complimenting said cooking even if it’s really not very good—but then again, it is dehydrated food: not like the man can make miracles, either—and Eggsy ultimately admitting that, despite the _heinous_ company, he’s really enjoying being out in the open, for once.

“Like I said before, I don’t get to do this a lot—what with, y’know, the whole _living in_ _London_ thing. Last time I sat around a campfire was on a beach in Hawai’I, and I couldn’t even enjoy it because I was tailing an arsehole arms dealer the whole time,” Eggsy says. 

Before today, _boo-fucking-hoo_ would have been David’s preferred choice of response to that. But—

“Not that I’m asserting that sitting by this crappy box of tin we used to heat up our water this fine evening is even remotely as cosy as having an actual campfire, mind,” Eggsy adds, before David can reply. “Plus, the gas in it fucking stinks.” He makes a face to accentuate his point, then smiles, and the word _adorable_ once again fleetingly materialises in front of David’s eyes.

_What the fuck is happening? Quick, say something, you utter—_

“I could, um,” David starts, before he can talk himself out of it. “This might not be _a beach in Hawai’i_ , but… I could still start a fire, if ye like?”

Eggsy quirks an eyebrow at him. “My my, Wally: aren’t you full of surprises.”

David… Ah, but Eggsy can’t possibly have seen it. It’s getting so dark. A splash of colour on his cheeks must make no difference if the sky has gained three shades of dark blue in the same time span, right?

“Oh, hardly. Just love campfires as well, I suppose. Remind me of my Da.”

 _Where is all_ this _coming from, then, eh?_

“May I say: you really _are_ full of surprises,” Eggsy says, appreciatively, rubbing his hands together. _He’s cold_ , David’s brain registers. _Must do something to make h—_ both of us _not cold._ “Never took you for the sentimental type. Then again, you did confess (unprompted, might I add) that you’re a sucker for Pixar films—so I shouldn’t be that surprised, really. Go on, then, big man. Where were you planning on finding the _wood_ for this spectacular fire you promised me?”

 _Shit_. They’re very much _not_ in a forest anymore. _Think, David, think._

Ah, but of course. David effectively masks his momentaneous panic with a triumphant smile. “If you must know, I saw a giant stack of wood near the seminary, earlier. Bet the priests won’t be screaming murder over a couple of stolen logs—they’re supposed tae be holy men, after all, eh?” 

“You, agent Wallace, are a _very_ naughty boy.”

_Right. Action. Time for action. Time for whatever this is to be put on hold for a wee while._

David, once again grateful for the looming darkness around them and effectively concealing his face, springs to his feet. “Be right back, then,” he promises, without thinking. “Won’t be a minute.”

“Leaving me alone here?” Eggsy fake-whines, pouting his lower lip. “What if the big bad wolf comes for me?”

“You’re in your thirties, you’re a big, burly fucker, and you’re trained tae kill with yer bare hands.” _You’ve done it before. There’s video evidence of it._ “I reckon you’ll be fine, Eggsy,” David snaps back. A string of words that, admittedly, sounded much smoother in his head than it did coming out of his mouth. And yet it seems to have done the trick, because would you _look_ at Eggsy’s face, right now.

He seems to be speechless—but in a very _camp_ way, somehow. Whatever the hell that means.

“Well. Can’t say I’ve ever been more offended in my _life_ , really. _Burly_ , yeah alright—can’t really hide that. But assuming I’m _in my thirties_? How absolutely bloody dare you. Off you pop, then. Not sure I wanna see you anymore,” he declares, barely managing to stifle an eruption of laughter.

David flips him off, _what the hell is so funny, even?_ , turns to leave, takes a few steps away from the campsite… and he immediately has to stop in his tracks, realising he’s all but leaving his right arm behind him. 

_Shite. The stupid fecking shackles._

“Forgetting summat, Wally?” Eggsy taunts him, his left arm outstretched in front of him, laughing in earnest now. “ _How_ , exactly?”

 _How indeed_ , David thinks to himself. 

“Oh, shut yer gob,” he retorts instead, laughing nervously and tugging on the chain a tad more, effectively yanking Eggsy off his seat. “C’mon, then. D’ye want this fire or nae? Help me out, you useless git.”

Thieving the lumber goes as smoothly as anyone’d have imagined, really, and a mere twenty-five minutes later they’re sitting next to each other by small but gorgeous fire, and David feels absolutely at peace with the entire universe. And yes, that does surprisingly include Eggsy, as well. There’s just one thing that would make this whole thing better, he reckons, and that is—

“What the _hell_ are you doing, going through my stuff, _Galahad_?” David asks, purposefully reverting to Eggsy’s codename, kind of trying to channel a less angry and considerably less scary version of his Ma (she always used to call David by his full name when she caught him doing something naughty).

“I’m just… a-ha!” Eggsy exclaims, victorious, a few seconds later, as he finally emerges from his scavenging of David’s backpack holding the tartan hip flask thad David had previously stashed away, and dangles it in front of David’s face with a stupid smile plastered on his face. “It’s full! They don’t hate us that much, after all,” he says, looking extremely chuffed. “Better make good use of the only fun talisman we’ve found today, I reckon. What d’you say, Wally? Nightcap?”

“Don’ mind if I do,” David replies, accepting the flask and carefully unscrewing the top. He then turns back to face Eggsy, and he’d love to say he’s not mesmerised by the way the light and shadows created by the flames are dancing on his face, but— “Well, Eggsy,” he cuts his own train of thought off and raises the flask to make a toast. “ _Sl—_ ”

“Let _me_ do it, eh? I’ve been practising,” Eggsy interrupts him, with a smirk, plucking the flask from David’s hand.

David raises an eyebrow and mirrors his smirk. “Go on, then.”

“ _Slàinte mhath_!” Eggsy effortlessly delivers, looking smug as all hell.

“ _Slàinte_ ,” David replies, unable to conceal how impressed he is. Eggsy takes a tentative sip, then passes it to David. It’s very quickly clear to David that what is in the flask is _just_ the best Scotch he’s ever had in his life. “Fuck me. They’re really not taking the piss. And you’re right—they really _don’t_ hate us,” he adds, closing his eyes and savouring the spirit, which is so good he feels like he might well be bordering on mystical ecstasy.

“Oh?”

“This is 50 _-_ year Glenglassaugh single malt, chief. We’re only allowed to have this whenever one of ours kicks the bucket. This retails for…”

“Look at you, practically climaxing over a few drops of pricey whisky,” Eggsy chuckles. “And then _I’m_ supposed to be the posh cunt.”

_You bloody sassenachs will never get it._

David shrugs. “You _are_. But I will admit you’re not wrong about me having a boner for this stuff,” he concedes.

Seemingly satisfied, Eggsy turns his head back towards the fire and takes another sip of whisky. David does the same, and can’t help but close his eyes and smile to himself; the explosion of flavour on his tongue and the trickle of heat down his throat are two indescribably pleasant sensations by themselves, but he supposes the, um, _atmosphere_ of the evening might definitely also be contributing to how warm and fuzzy he’s feeling, at the moment.

They pass the flask back and forth between them and drink quietly for a while. It’s very obvious, however, that this isn’t the usual uncomfortable silence that reigns in the flat after yet another day of behaving like arses to each other: this one’s pleasant, relaxed. Being around each other feels natural—almost as if they’d done it all their lives.

Surprisingly, even agreeing it’s time for some kip and awkwardly shifting next to each other in a way-too-small tent doesn’t feel as unpleasant as David would have imagined. It’s like the hardship of the day, the forced cooperation and that wee moment by the fire quite successfully melted all the tension away. Hell, he almost wants to say—

“Good night, Wally,” Eggsy whispers, softly.

“Good night, Eggsy.”

 _This is wonderful_ , David thinks as he drifts off to sleep. 

And yet, quite predictably, when anything starts going even marginally well in his life, fate works to bring him back down. That night, even his sleep conspires against him, and he tumbles headlong into a familiar jumble of images—the same pattern as usual: London, Julia Montague, and a dead man’s switch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, we made it!
> 
> Once again, if you need it, here's our map:
> 
> We'd love to hear what you thought about The Honeymoon Bondage ~~Gays~~ Guys, and the handholding, and the gift that keeps on giving that is Eggsy's dumbass excuse for their shackles, and the campfire, and... *fades into the background*
> 
> See you next Tuesday, we love youse.
> 
> M and C xx


	9. VII. Progressus - I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I see the way you look at me, when you think I can’t see ye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello lovely people! We hope you've had a relaxing weekend and a good Monday, and that you've fuelled up to get back on the Idiots To Lovers train!
> 
> This week, after what feels like ages, we switch back to our beloved Eggsy's POV. Be prepared for some intense internal monologue, shocking revelations, and some more self-indulgent Scotland porn. We can't really help ourselves on that front, soz.
> 
> As usual, you can find some visual reference for our landmarks in the mood board, a map in the end notes, and **[our weekly playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0tCAzLfqpNLBVSLl7WOWRM?si=B87rWpz6T6S0VvUtOZBksQ)** to help the mood. 
> 
> See you very soon!

_**VII. Progressus - I** _

Eggsy is standing naked in front of a mirror. He tries to avoid doing it most days—just full-on stare at himself—because he doesn’t really like what his body has become in the past couple of years. And yet, this one time, he’s enjoying it: the man he sees reflected in front of him seems to look exactly like Eggsy used to look what now feels like eons ago, when he first signed up for Kingsman trials: lean, toned, mostly hairless—in a word, _perfect_.

The person behind him, whose hands are snaking up from Eggsy’s hips to cup his pecs, lingering to trace every ridge of muscle with the tips of their fingers while they do so, definitely seems to agree with Eggsy’s silent assessment.

Eggsy is really _feeling_ whoever this is, but somehow he’s unable to distinguish their features in the mirror yet. Going by what he senses, though—a strong chest pressed against his back, a slight height difference, hairy forearms, big, big hands—it seems to be a _man_ standing behind him. 

_Harry_ , his trained mind immediately suggests. 

“Harry,” he whispers, out loud, leaning into the man’s touch even further and trying to bring him closer to the mirror, so he can look him in the face.

The man does accommodate him—he pushes Eggsy gently forward, closer to the mirror, and now his face is miraculously lit up and his features are distinct and fucking drop-dead _gorgeous_ , and he’s kissing the crook of Eggsy’s neck, and he’s smiling against Eggsy’s skin, so sensitive against his beard, and he’s chuckling lightly and saying, “Try again, bonny lad,” and well, fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_. This can’t be—

“Something wrong, Eggsy?” Wallace murmurs, impossibly close to Eggsy’s ear, before turning his eyes towards the mirror and meeting Eggsy’s shocked gaze in the glass. “Changed yer mind?”

“How’d… No, I haven’t, I just… How did you know?” Eggsy hears himself reply, weakly, as he leans even further into Wallace, already oh so hopelessly lost and, weirdly, not regretting it for a second.

“I see the way you look at me, when you think I can’t see ye,” Wallace replies, still grinning and resuming the gentle kissing and nibbling of Eggsy’s neck he’d started on before stopping and checking for consent. _Fuck, that really shouldn’t be that hot._ “I’ve thought about doing this since the first time I saw you,” he adds, low and mellifluous—and Eggsy’s knees completely turn to jelly.

“Mmmhdoingwhat?” Eggsy says, in a single breath, because he’s having trouble even just thinking straight, let alone formulating actual sentences to reply to, well, _that_. 

_What the fuck is happening._

“This,” Wallace says, moving to the other side of Eggsy’s neck and biting down on his skin a tad more roughly, as he skims the tips of his fingers over Eggsy’s abs and hipbones and his hands are dangerously close, so close to—

It all vanishes in a puff of black smoke and the sound of someone crying out for help.

Eggsy sits up and immediately turns to his left to try and understand what is going on with Wallace. The man seems to be screaming at the top of his lungs, and it’s a mixture of indistinct noises and actual words and sentences— _please, help me_ , _it’s not me_ , _they killed her, they killed Julia_ , and _Vicky, get Vicky, get my wife_ amongst them.

Not being able to make sense of any of it, and generally not knowing what to do, the only things Eggsy can think of doing are to turn on the small solar lamp hanging from the middle of the tent ceiling, and subsequently try to shake Wallace awake. He shifts awkwardly in his sleeping bag and grabs Wallace by the shoulders, nudging him gently. “Mate? Mate, wake up!”

That doesn’t work: Wallace continues tossing and turning and convulsing and sweating, and after even just a bunch of seconds it’s frankly fucking scary, so Eggsy decides to try again. He pats Wallace quite awkwardly on the cheek and moves closer to speak directly into his ear. “C’mon, man, please. Wake up, you’re having a nightmare.”

Finally, that does the trick: Wallace makes another strangled noise and sits up, wide awake and looking absolutely petrified. “Need to…” he starts, but he trails off as he turns his head slowly to his right to meet Eggsy’s gaze. “Fuck, Eggsy, I’m sorry, I’m…”

Another sentence going unfinished, it seems. Eggsy watches as Wallace struggles out of his sleeping bag and hugs his legs close to his body, burying his head between his bent knees and starting to sob loudly.

“Hey! Hey, it’s okay! It was just a bad dream, eh, Wally?” Eggsy comforts him, as he moves again to sit a bit closer and soothe him a tad more by rubbing his back. He doesn’t even realise what he’s doing, at first—touching Wallace, potentially invading his personal space while he’s vulnerable—and when he does, he kind of wants to kick himself. He can’t really think, it seems: someone’s crying, it’s all touchy-touchy and no more boundaries. _Well done indeed, Eggsy._

Wallace says something that Eggsy finds to be unintelligible. The man’s voice is muffled by weeping and his head is still covered to conceal his tears. Eggsy continues to rub his back while he asks, “Come again, bruv?”

That spurs Wallace to finally emerge from his hiding place and rub a hand all over his face, scantily drying his tears, before turning to look Eggsy in the eye—blue, blue, _so blue_ , even in this shitty lighting, it’s impossible—and say, softly and a bit wetly, something that Eggsy was done hoping he’d ever get to hear. 

“It’s _David_ , Eggsy. My name... is David.”

Eggsy smiles at him, feeling weirdly relieved. Fucking hell, this means _so much_. Not really the time or the place for a freak-out about it, though, because Wal—no, fuck no, _David_ needs him now.

“David,” Eggsy repeats, slowly. _Nice to finally meet you. Took long enough._

David gives him a small smile back and then breaks down again, which promptly tickles the Eggsy’s touchy-touchy instinct once again. Before either of them knows, Eggsy’s kneeling right in front of David and hugging him tight. 

It’s a bit awkward, what with them being in a too-small space that doesn’t allow for much movement and cuffed together, but Eggsy does his absolute best. David doesn’t even protest: on the contrary, he mirrors Eggsy’s position to make things easier and returns the hug, and Eggsy feels it all through the physical contact—the fierce, all-consuming heartbreak of the traumatic experience David must have gone through, but also the gratitude and the utter relief in knowing, without Eggsy needing to say anything else other than his name, that Eggsy’s _here_ for him, and he’s not going anywhere.

“I’m so sorry,” David says, in-between sobs and half into the crook of Eggsy’s neck. “I’m so sorry, Eggsy.”

“Shh, shh, come on, man. Nothing to be sorry for, eh?” he reassures David, kindly.

He feels David shake his head. “Course there is. Been such an… arse to you this whole time. And y-yer first instinct is to just be _nice_ to me, no questions asked.” 

“You’re alright, David, seriously. Besides, it’s just what any decent human being would have done.”

David disentangles himself from the hug and sits back on his heels. The obnoxious bluish-white hue of the light above their heads makes him look even more broken. He fixes the impossible blue eyes on Eggsy’s once again, wipes a few leftover tears off with the back of his left hand. “Wanna hear about some _not decent_ human beings?”

 _God. This is really happening._ Eggsy nods. “Course I do. Didn’t wanna pry, but if you’re sure…”

“I’m sure,” David says, firmly. “I want tae be honest with you. I owe you this, after the hell I put you through.”

Eggsy settles back to a cross-legged position and is ultimately unable to resist amicably squeezing David’s forearm in encouragement. “Well, then, David: I’m all ears.”

Minutes feels like hours pass, during which David tells Eggsy many, many things about his latest giant undercover assignment in London. Not very far into David’s speech, the words _Home Secretary_ and _bombings_ are uttered, and Eggsy’s jaw falls.

_I fucking remember. It was all over the telly for months. Julia Montague. They offed her and a dozen other people at a public fucking gathering, then tried to frame a copper for it. Wait, no, this can’t be, he can’t be—_

But it’s the only possible explanation. 

“Fuck. You’re _David Budd_ , then, aren’t you?” Eggsy can’t help but throw in, at some point, as if that could stop his brain from whirring too loudly.

David looks positively baffled. “Um. Aye? How…”

“Watched the live coverage on the telly. Then I stole Merlin’s file and read up on the whole thing. Can’t fucking believe I’m just putting two and two tog—ah, but of course.” Eggsy taps his temple. “Bloody targeted memory darts. Although I must admit, you do look about fifteen with a poor dye job and no beard, mate,” he adds, grinning.

David rolls his eyes and chuckles. “Please don’t remind me. How rude, eh? My two best features, and they take them away from me. You should be grateful for getting that dart, really.”

“Can’t tell if you’re being serious or just fishing for compliments, right now, David. Either way, when we get back home, I’m going to take you to a _couples’ therapy_ date to IKEA and buying you a fuckin’ mirror.”

David just scoffs, diverts his gaze and, quite visibly, _blushes_. 

_Wow. What the hell. Looks like he wasn’t fishing for anything after all._

“But anyways,” Eggsy says, briskly, before he starts visibly _staring_ , “enough of me stroking your ego. Do go on, please.”

David proceeds to tell Eggsy about all his personal issues. How he was diagnosed with PTSD when he came back from playing hard man for Clansman in Afghanistan for two whole years and burning himself out completely. How he ignored the lot of ‘em, Robert and Hume telling him to take a break from being in the field. How he just jumped on the next opportunity to get back undercover, thinking it would look suspicious for an assignment in the Met if he took too long a leave of absence from the forces. How his superiors quickly realised the PTSD was going to be a problem, offered him help. How he refused all the outstretched hands around him, thinking he was doing the right thing by not showing weakness. How it all came crumbling down when Julia Montague was killed, and he—

“Fucking hell, David. I… I had no idea.”

David’s eyes fill with tears once again. “No-one _really_ knows the nitty-gritty of that one, to be fair. It’s… Extremely classified, I suppose. Anyways. It was a blank.” He tries to be dismissive, shaking his head and giving Eggsy a forced smile.

_You still tried putting a bullet in your head. You actually pulled the bloody trigger._

Eggsy doesn’t say any of that: he’s perfectly aware that the last things anyone needs after telling you about a suicide attempt are pointless pity and a fucking lecture. He just straightens himself up, then, and gives David a friendly smile.

“Glad you’re still with us. You’re a fuckin’ national hero, David Budd.” 

Once again, Eggsy stops and thinks: it just feels so _right_ to be saying David’s full name. Never in his life had Eggsy ever imagined he would be rolling three simple syllables around in his mouth. Almost like a fine wine, the way he’s relishing them. Someone once asked _what’s in a name?_ and the question just feels odd to Eggsy. There is _so much_ in a name. _Then again, s’pose old Willy was wildly unfamiliar with the world of secret organisations and undercover work._

Oblivious of Eggsy’s inner turmoil about names, David mindlessly and slyly rejects yet another flattery. “Ah, stop that, immediately. Just doing my job, wasn’t I?” 

_Sure you were. Truly allergic to praise, aren’t you?_

“Right, of course,” Eggsy replies, shaking his head and hugging his knees to his chest, trying to get the blood flowing back into his feet. _Just wanted you to know there really aren’t many blokes like you around, is all._

But he doesn’t say that. Doesn’t want to make David any more uncomfortable—not now that David’s being open and honest with him, and possibly not ever again. This feels like a good place to leave it, for the night.

He briefly glances at his watch, which reads 2:13 AM. “Hey, what do you say we put a giant pin in this and try to get some more kip? Gotta get up again in four hours. So much more walking to do. I’m tired just _thinking_ about it,” he says, dramatically.

David nods. “That’s a canny lad.” He then draws a hand through his hair, ruffling it a bit. The striking silver streak at the front of his quiff practically glimmers in the now feeble glow of the camping light, and Eggsy tries his best—and most likely fails—not to appear too transfixed.

Eggsy smiles kindly at David, then turns the light off. When they finally shuffle back into their sleeping bags, just lying next to each other with their cuffed wrists at a reasonable distance, Eggsy lets it all sink in, for a while. 

He can feel a powerful, almost magnetic force inside his chest telling him to stop staring blankly at the ceiling and turn to look at David: it’s dark, now. Not like he would know, anyways.

He doesn’t, however. Instead he shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, and resists it. The silence is endless and absolute, until...

“Eggsy?” David whispers, out of nowhere. Eggsy, who was almost falling asleep, feels every cell of his body awaken and tingle in anticipation. 

“Yes, David?” he replies, hopefully not too eager.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For listening to me.”

“Nah, mate,” Eggsy says, mind clear and heart full as it hasn’t been in months. “Thank _you_. For trusting me.”

Eggsy hears a feeble clicking sound and he feels his left hand be gently tugged away from his body by the wrist, until the back of it is pressed flush against David’s.

Sleep comes surprisingly quickly. When it does, Eggsy’s dream miraculously resumes from where he left it—like he’d just pressed pause on a film he was watching. Except, of course, there’s one giant difference: he knows it’s _David_ , now. David touching him all over, David worshipping his body in the mirror, David turning him round and kissing him like he’s never been kissed before.

*

**_Eggsy and David’s Scalan campsite. 5:56 AM._ **

_Something smells nice_ , Eggsy thinks as he gently stirs awake. His sleeping bag is soft and cosy around him, and the residual embers of his fiery dream are still softly warming him from the inside, as well. He hasn’t woken up so serene and at peace with the world in a good while. Hasn’t been _held_ like this since…

 _Wait,_ _what_? _When, how, why did this happen?_

Eggsy seems to be curled up not only inside his sleeping bag, but also nestled in _David’s arms_. Hell, his face is pressed into the man’s chest. He can smell the fabric softener on the soft thermal shirt hugging his torso, and basically hear his fucking heartbeat. 

This is— _fuck_. And Eggsy can’t even move, get back to his side of the tent and feign obliviousness: David is clutching him tightly and doesn’t seem to have any intention of letting go. There is not a chance in the world Eggsy won’t wake him if he tries to slither away.

He looks up at the tent ceiling and sighs. _Why do these things always happen to me?_ he wonders, as he thinks of something he hasn’t thought about in a long, long time. Weirdly, it hasn’t crossed his mind last night, in front of that fire that _David lit for him_ , fuck, but this morning it’s all coming back in waves. This morning, he remembers that first night at the pub with the whole gang, and the way David and Julia were with each other. He also thinks of each and every time he’s looked at David, and David was seemingly lost in thought, smiling like an idiot to himself. Like a man in love. 

David is clearly spoken for, and Eggsy is in his arms, and even if this feels right it is actually oh so wrong, and this, what, _cuddling situation_ needs to cease to be a thing immediately, or else— _fuck, but he smells good._

_Come on, Eggsy. You can do it._

Eggsy blinks a couple of times, trying to shake it off. Gaining some mental clarity back, he realises that, judging from the light he can see through the thin forest green canvas, it must already be around dawn. The alarm hasn’t rung yet, but it’s definitely time to get up.

_Right. Easiest way to do this is play the cheeky fucker and hope for the best, I guess._

Before doing anything else, however, Eggsy does decide to indulge his dream-self and discreetly cup one of David’s gorgeous, bulging pecs in his hand—because, for fuck’s sake, they’re right in front of his nose, and Eggsy’s only flesh and blood; plus, David seems to be sleeping pretty soundly, there’s no risk of him actually—

Eggsy hears the sound of someone coughing lightly, and immediately starts panicking. He looks upwards and— _fuck_ , hi, SFX blue eyes and tousled bed hair and bushy brows and a general air of absolute astoundment on David’s face, obviously wide fucking awake himself and seemingly halfway between bemused and amused.

“...morning?” Eggsy says, uncertainly, retracting his hand from David’s chest as if it had suddenly turned into a radioactive surface.

David grins a bit more still. “Good morning, Eggsy. Careful, or I might have to report you to our handlers for _inappropriate workplace behaviour_.”

Eggsy scoffs but feels himself blush furiously all the same. He disentangles himself from David’s quite possessive sleep-embrace and shuffles back to his original place on the tent floor. “Right back at you, bruv,” he says, nodding to the space between David’s spread arms he was curled up in just fifteen seconds ago. “Seriously, what are you, a koala?”

David laughs in earnest and shrugs. “Something else ye didn’t know about me: I’m a hugger.”

 _Oh, it wasn’t just a hug_ , fucked-out Dream-Eggsy whispers in Eggsy’s ear. Eggsy so wishes he’d shut the fuck up.

Busy getting rid of the last drops of sleep in his system and fixating on the dip of David’s trapezius into his upper deltoid—oh so beautifully highlighted by the tight, tight, _tight_ thermal top David’s wearing—Eggsy finds that his mind is completely blank, and that he has absolutely no idea what to reply to what David just said. _Fucking get it together, mate._

Luckily, David provides. “But anyways. Sorry about that,” he says, chasing that with a yawn and a small smile. “What d’you say we get a move on, then, eh? We’ve got a bit of a head start on the day, and I don’t think I’ve heard the alarm go off yet. Also, pretty sure I’ve spotted two packs of instant coffee in my rucksack, yesterday.”

Eggsy widens his eyes in surprise and delight. “Fuck, you for real? I’d _kill_ for a coffee.”

David nods. “Dead serious. Come on, then. Get yer bum out of that sleeping bag and boil me some water, London boy.”

 _Bossy._ “Why can’t _you_ do it?” his cheeky self decides to snap back.

“You’re the master of that hellish gas stove palaver. I bow to ye, oh Grand Shaman of Camp Cooking,” David says, theatrically gesturing with his free hand and actually bowing his head.

“Yeah, alright. And fucking ridiculous, is what _you_ are,” Eggsy says, smirking. He climbs out of his sleeping bag and crawls towards the tent opening, unzipping it. He then, still on all fours, turns to face David. “Come on, then, get the Grand Shaman his gear. We ‘aven’t got all day.”

Eggsy catches a glimpse of David _most fucking definitely_ staring at his arse, before the man replies, “Yes, _sir_.”

*

**_Task IV: Castleton of Blairfindy_ **

**_Knockandu. 8:30 AM. 5.5 hours remaining._ **

As expected, the coffee turns out to be (as David oh so elegantly puts it) _undrinkable fucking pish_ , but it seems to do the job nonetheless: Eggsy feels he’s got an actual spring in his step, this morning. 

Coffee aside, as far as their ridiculous treasure hunt goes, the day seems to have started off really well. Opening the envelope, they came across a brief note from Merlin and Hume setting their next destination—the Castleton of Blairfindy, located on the Glenlivet Distillery grounds, a 1PM deadline, and £15 in cash. David then proceeded to read Eggsy’s mind, _great, more pocket money_ , and add it was a real shame they wouldn’t even be able to use it to buy themselves some decent grub, then suggested they pack it and make the most of the extra time they inadvertently bought themselves.

At 7AM, sharp as a whip, after barely fifteen minutes on the road, the damned flip phone started buzzing in David’s pocket. What followed was a brief but very satisfying exchange with Merlin and Hume, who thought _you boys would need a wake-up call_ and ended up flabbergasted at David and Eggsy’s efficiency, anticipating their alarm and getting an early start to be sure to finish in time for their end of day time limit. The devious handlers ended up being so incredibly chuffed, in fact, that they decided to give David and Eggsy a whole extra hour to complete this next task. Eggsy could also swear he’d heard Merlin utter a quiet _well done, keep at it_ right before the call got disconnected: that really took him back, to a time when he was actually doing his job well. It almost made him _blush_.

On a second thought, though, maybe his sudden cheerfulness is not all to be pinned on caffeine and praise. The way David— _David, David_ , Eggsy keeps repeating to himself whenever his mind is not otherwise occupied—precedes him on the path but still makes a point to glance back from time to time, as if to check on him, blue eyes smiling and uncharacteristically kind and so, so heartbreakingly beautiful, _dammit, Eggsy, he’s taken: just get it the fuck together, eh?_

Luckily, the path they’re on is long and winding enough that Eggsy does end up eventually getting it the fuck together—no choice, really, as he’s not particularly keen on landing on his bum and making a fool of himself yet again. 

_Although that might make David laugh_ , Dream-Eggsy tries reasoning with him from where he’s lying, in a sea of white sheets and buried inside Dream-David’s embrace—the insufferable smug prick.

 _Oh, piss off, will you not_ , Eggsy mentally replies, shaking it off as he avoids the umpteenth protruding root that seems to have been put there with the exclusive purpose of making him trip over. He walks up to David, who’s calling for his attention. After almost three hours of walking, they finally come to a halt. 

“There it is. Can ye see it? Right next to the distillery building: that is Blairfindy Castle,” David announces, pointing to a seemingly insignificant pile of old rocks, who looks to be positively crumbling before their eyes. 

“You call that thing a _castle_?” Eggsy wonders out loud, as they start slowly walking again. “Fuck me, I bet that even in its best days it didn’t look like much. Look at the structure, it’s all… _wonky_.”

David tuts. “First of all: wash yer mouth—I’ll have ye know that us Scots were masters of fortified constructions for _centuries_ ,” he says, rather pedantically but not in his usual unpleasant tone. “Second: what the fuck would _you_ know about architecture, anyways, eh?”

Eggsy laughs, but still keeps playing the game. “If you were such fierce warriors, then why did you ultimately _bend the knee_ to our good Queen, eh?” he teases, glancing sideways and hoping to find David looking like he’s about to launch on a lecture on Mary Stuart and her rather convenient marriage and progeny. 

What he gets instead is a resigned smile and a dramatic eye roll and a shake of that gorgeous, gorgeous head, before David replies, “Heard state school education in England was shite, but didn’t think the truth would live up to the tales.”

And, well, here’s the rub, Eggsy supposes: as much as he still wants to smack this exasperatingly standoffish arsehole he gets to call his partner, what happened last night and in the very early morning really has opened his eyes on a possible reason why they’ve both been behaving like this. Sure, there’s the whole ego problem, what with Eggsy having been called in to supposedly mitigate David’s anger management issues—but his gut says the question could have a few more layers to it. He remembers someone, sometime, telling him something about the reason why little boys pulling on little girls’ pigtails in the school playground. _It’s because they like ‘em._

Maybe this is why David has been so hard to crack, all this time. _But that can’t be_ , he immediately contradicts himself. _How in the world could he want little old me, when he’s with Julia?_

And yet. Maybe, just maybe—

“Oi, Norman Foster, you listening to me?” David quite rudely interrupts Eggsy’s musings on what he’s this close to labelling a _schoolboy crush_.

“No, sorry, tuned out after you started pissing all over my secondary education, I’m afraid,” Eggsy immediately replies, sarcastic but playful. “You were saying?”

“Just wondering whether we’re about tae come face to face with ghosts—that building looks haunted as fuck,” David says simply, looking dead serious and a tad concerned.

Eggsy quirks an eyebrow at him. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? You seriously calling _me_ an illiterate peasant and then immediately following that up with superstition? You’re a walking contradiction, David Budd.” _You’re lucky you’re so pretty._

They banter back and forth about how ghosts are absolutely real and Eggsy should be careful about taking stuff like this lightly, with Eggsy half-bent over laughing the whole time and David shaking his head disapprovingly, until they finally get to the Glenlivet Distillery and check the time. 9:30AM. _Decent speed today as well_ , Eggsy thinks to himself. _Well done the disaster spies._

“Have ye ever been on an actual distillery tour, Eggsy?” David asks, sounding quite unpromptedly chipper, as they walk inside the visitor centre and move closer to each other, hands instinctively clasping, cover back on. Somehow, it feels different than it did last night, when that priest busted them—but Eggsy is definitely _not_ thinking about that.

“Um, no? Not that I recall. And, ah, fuck, look,” he realises, looking at the list of prices exposed right next to the entrance. “Seems the Glenlivet folks won’t be the ones popping my cherry, either. Tickets are £15... per person.”

“Shite,” David utters, irritably. “Not like we can separate, either. God, I hate those two _so much_.”

“You and me both, mate. Plan B, then?” Eggsy suggests, raising an eyebrow.

“Plan B,” David confirms. “We’re generally quite good at Plan B, aren’t we?” he says, with a smile.

After half an hour of scouting around the property, doing their best to keep a very low profile and managing surprisingly well, if one disregards the few weirded-out looks their clasped hands and rehearsed couple-y act get from some of the tourists pouring into the property—which, you know, _fuck ‘em_ —Eggsy and David conclude that, possibly for the first time from the beginning of this whole ridiculous endeavour, _Plan B_ unfortunately really isn’t an option. Every door is barred, every gate has a sturdy lock on it, and every open entrance is guarded. They have nothing to pick the locks with, nothing to dress up in to look like anything else other than tourists, and no real excuse to ask to be let in via an alternative access. 

In all this, the Castleton of Blairfindy is just standing there, mocking them from its secure location very much _within_ the confines of the Glenlivet property—so close, yet so far. And so, _so_ unfair.

“Dunno about you: I’ve got zilch,” Eggsy says, after the five minutes they agreed to spend in silence sitting on a bench and looking to craft Plan-fucking-C finally elapse.

“I’ve got one idea,” David announces, smiling but looking unconvinced. “It’s not that great, however,” he warns, immediately after.

“If anything, these past 24 hours have confirmed my suspicions about you—you’re not as thick as I thought you were. Not in the slightest. Like I keep having to say, somehow: you should give yourself some credit, Budd.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, you know,” David says, rolling his eyes the teeniest bit. “But seriously—all I’ve got is: maybe, let’s take a breather and use that pointless cash to buy ourselves a sandwich and a hot brew? I think it might help.”

Eggsy feels something spark in the middle of his chest, at that. The familiar, incorruptible contentment that usually comes with the promise of food. “Told ya you was a genius, mate,” he replies.

“That’s _really_ not what you said, Eggsy.”

“Shh shh shh, honey,” he says, louder now, as he quickly gets up from the bench and grabs David’s hand, tugging on it to get him up. Right then, he feels more eyes on them—so he decides to turn it up to eleven. “Come on, love: you promised you’d get your new husband some breakfast.”

David briefly rolls his eyes, “Your wish is my command, _darling_ ,” but still ends up giving Eggsy a dazzling grin as he gets up and joins him on the short walk back towards the entrance of the visitor centre.

The distillery café is cosy and beautifully furnished, and the waitress that serves them is possibly one of the nicest humans Eggsy’s met in a while. She’s all friendly chatter and smiles, mostly directed at David, and Eggsy can’t really say he blames her, unfortunately—but still, he has to silence that irrational bit of him that is screaming at her to back the hell off, for some reason. 

On top of the cuppas, they agree to share a meal: chicken and corn chowder, ham and cheese panini, and a slice of chocolate cake with a scoop of _whisky ice cream_ on top. The whole thing is absolutely delicious; Eggsy feels rebooted, warm and fuzzy, kind of like he felt by that fire David lit him last night, but possibly even a tad better. They’re sitting across each other and somehow still keeping up the honeymoon stunt for no-one’s benefit in particular—David’s hand dangerously close to Eggsy’s on the table, playing with the fifty pence change the waitress brought back after they paid the bill, expertly turning it over in his fingers as if it was a gadget he was preparing to throw, and accidentally brushing the back of Eggsy’s hand more than once as he does so, and—

“Eggsy? Ye listenin’ to me?” David asks, poking Eggsy’s forearm to attract his attention. _Shit, gotta stop doing this._

“Um, no, sorry—thinking too hard, aren’t I? Sorry, you were saying?” he says, hurriedly, trying to save face.

“I said,” David says, a touch of impatience in his voice, “it may be worth checking out whether they do free tours for honeymooners? It’s probably worth a shot, since this,” he pauses, gestures between them, “is now a whole thing that, I’m guessing, at least half the park population is aware of.”

Eggsy considers that for a second. “Suppose they say yes: wouldn’t they want to snap pics of us, for their website? Or at the very least have us promote the tour on social media as a honeymoon activity? Can’t really afford our mugs to get any kind of publicity, and the phone we have really won’t make us pass for Instagram influencers, I’m afraid.”

David looks a bit crestfallen, but ends up nodding. “Yeah, fair enough. Any better plans coming from your own machinations, then?”

“Better I could come up with was faking having our wallets stolen—but then a lot of people did just see us get this lovely meal, so…”

“Fuck,” David curses, closing his fist on the table. “That would have been good. Damn my daft ideas,” he adds, frustrated.

“Hey, hey,” Eggsy reassures him, while—yeah, alright, fuck it, all part of the masquerade, innit?—covering David’s clenched fist with both his hands. “It’s all good, David. The food was fucking amazing and exactly what I needed, so not an ounce of regret from my part. Let’s just look around some more, eh? We might be able to work with something.”

They get up and, for lack of a better plan, start wandering pretty much aimlessly around the gift shop. Eggsy marvels at the price tags of some of the bottles there—and even recognises a couple of the most premium ones from Harry’s private liquor cabinet, _fuck_ —observes the elaborate spiralling display of Scotch bottles that catches the eye in the middle of the room, and watches David’s eyes nervously flicker from left to right, definitely scanning for something, _looking_ for something, until—

“Fucking hell,” David says, quietly, a big smile crawling up on his face. “I think I’ve bloody got it. Knew the name _Glenlivet_ rang a bell.” He then turns to look at Eggsy. “Follow my lead, yeah?” he asks, squeezing Eggsy’s hand more tightly still and looks for confirmation with an intense glance. 

_My God, d’you know you could ask me to jump off a cliff right now and I’d do it?_

“Let’s have it, then,” Eggsy replies, with a half-smile and a wink.

David tugs on his hand and walks with purpose in the direction of a very tall, very handsome ginger man wearing a crisp white shirt with rolled up sleeves and the same light brown tweed waistcoat everyone from the distillery staff seems to be sporting. Since the man is walking away from them at a seemingly equally fast pace and not turning round, David calls out after a while. 

“Callum!”

The man, who indeed does seem to recognise his name, stops in his tracks and turns to face them. “Oh my God, Ross! Is that really you?”

 _Ross?_ Eggsy wonders for a brief second. _Oh, but of course. Fake names. Spy stuff. Wondering what he’ll call me, if he chose such a crap name for himself._

“Hey mate,” David greets the guy with a pat on his back, making a point not to go for a handshake that would cause him to stop clutching Eggsy’s hand and give the whole shackles situation away. “Nice to see ye. Been so long, eh?”

“What, three years? Crazy how time flies,” Callum replies, conversational and friendly, icy grey eyes flickering up and down David's body—most definitely checking him out. _Oh, but he’s gorgeous. How are all men in the whisky business this handsome? Have I been missing out all this time?_

“May I say: you haven’t aged a day, old boy,” Callum goes on to observe, appreciatively, to which Dream-Eggsy, stirring for the first time in hours, replies by clutching Dream-David closer still. _Hands off, Attractive Redhead Maltman._

Callum then finally, _finally_ acknowledges Eggsy. He turns to face him, holding out his hand and smiling widely, teeth white as snow, full lips and a thick ginger beard framing them. “But where are my manners. Terribly sorry, mate. I’m Callum McDermott, very nice to meet ye,” he says, charmingly. 

Eggsy holds out his own hand and is about to introduce himself, when David precedes him. “Cal, this is Mark, my…”

“...husband,” Eggsy finishes, grasping Callum’s hand and shaking it vigorously while he holds Callum’s intense gaze. _Yeah, that’s right, you prick: husband._ “Nice to meet you too.”

Callum briefly looks like he’s astounded and disappointed at the same time, before giving Eggsy and David another blinding smile and showily congratulating them on the wedding. Eggsy can _feel_ the veiled spite in his words, and absolutely relishes every second of it.

“Yeah, thanks mate. Just last month, actually. Rained like crazy, didn’t it, honey?” David prompts. A moment after, while he’s nodding, Eggsy can see David urgently looking at the clock on the wall next to Callum’s head. It says 10:45AM. Altogether not too late, but it’s plain as day that the _time_ aspect of this whole dumb-as-fuck small talk endeavour seems to officially be stressing David out.

“Ah, but you know what they say, darlin’: a wet knot…”

“...is harder to untie,” Callum butts in, finishing Eggsy’s sentence. Eggsy really, _really_ has to work hard to avoid rolling his eyes. “You’re a pair of lucky fellas. Where did you go on your honeymoon, then, if I may ask?”

_Just how close is David to this man? Who asks these questions after not seeing you for three whole years?_

“Ah, funny you should ask that, Cal,” David says, with a small smile. He then proceeds to do that thing, that _thing_ he did last night that possibly was the catalyst of the whole romantic daydream situation Eggsy’s still very much lost into: he raises their entwined hands and brushes his soft, plush lips over the back of Eggsy’s, firm gaze saying _I’ve got you_ , and— _fuck, what the fuck, what the actual fuck_ —he then turns back to face Callum, as if nothing at all had happened, and continues talking. “We’re actually on our honeymoon right now! Decided to get out in the Scottish wilderness, show London Boy here some of the wonders of the best of Great Britain.”

“I seem to have married a whole country, not a man,” Eggsy says, eyeing Callum knowingly and stressing the word _married_ just a tad. “But I’m told it’s pretty much standard practice with you Scots, innit?”

“Indeed, it is,” Callum agrees, shortly. “And may I say: _great_ choice, Ross. Guessing you stopped by Glenlivet for the distillery tour, then?”

_Don’t worry about me, eh? Continue your little conversation as if I wasn’t here. I’ll be absolutely fine._

“We have,” David confirms. “Mark hasn’t been around many distilleries, if you can believe it, so I thought it’d be great to stop here. You did always have some of the best stuff, anyways.”

“Well then, that’s perfect. A tour and a couple of drams for the newlyweds, on me. What d’ye say?” he says, smirking at David—and undoubtedly _just_ at David.

“Oh, no, no, no,” David shakes his head and touches Callum’s forearm, which automatically has Eggsy squeeze David’s hand tighter. “We couldn’t _possibly_ accept.” 

_Look at how polite my_ husband _is, Callum. And, might I add, absolutely immune to your pathetic advances._

“Nonsense,” Callum dismisses David. “Of course ye can. Wedding present from all of us at Glenlivet to our brother in arms from Glenglassaugh. How much time do ye fellas have? I could book you in for our Academy tour: starts in two hours, lasts for another three, but I guarantee you’ll come out of it pleasantly tipsy and considerably more knowledgeable about Glenlivet Scotch. Well, maybe the last one only applies to you, Mark. Ross is plenty familiar with our… products.”

 _Patronising much?_ Eggsy thinks. _Also, why the pause? Is David familiar with anything else from ‘Glenlivet’?_

“Ah, that sounds _lovely_ ,” Eggsy takes it upon himself to reply. “But we really haven’t got that much time, ‘ave we, darling? We’re on a bit of a schedule, I’m afraid.”

David nods in assent. “Sorry, mate. Have to be off by 2.”

“I suppose we could book you in for our standard tour, then?” Callum suggests. “Starts in ten minutes and lasts for about an hour, with a tasting at the end.”

“That sounds great, mate. Thank you so much, this is real lovely of you,” David says, grateful, and Eggsy sees him relax for the first time in a couple of hours. 

_Bingo. A way in. Well done, you gorgeous fucker._

They follow Callum to the till and wait for him to print out their tickets for the tour. He hands them both to David—once again, it’s kind of like Eggsy’s not really there, thanks a lot—or at least until David passes the tickets to him with an absolutely _smitten_ smile that Eggsy has to remind himself is clearly, _clearly_ for the benefit of the act. 

They’re just about to walk away when Callum raises his index finger and silently bids them to wait a second. He disappears from view for a few beats and comes back holding a bottle of Scotch that says _cask strength_ on the label, which he hands to David. “Just another wee present for youse, with the compliments of everyone here at Glenlivet. Might recognise this one, Ross,” he says, smiling at David. 

“You really are barmy, mate. This is too much!” David protests, weakly. Eggsy realises that the man’s lit up at the sight of the posh-looking spirit. _A whore with expensive taste like the rest of us, aren’t you, Budd? Glad to know my assessment was correct_ , Eggsy thinks to himself, smugly. Oh, but he’d treat David to so many nice things, if only he—

“Just, you know: for old times’ sake,” Callum insists, visibly _winking_ at David. _Not sure I want to know what that means._ “Now, if you’ll just join the rest of the people back there,” Callum says, pointing to the opposite corner of the room. “The tour will start in a couple of minutes.”

Eggsy gives Callum a fake but absolutely dazzling smile. “Thank you _so much_ , Callum.”

“My pleasure, Mark,” Callum says, finally forced to address him again. Immediately, he turns back to David. “Ross, lovely seeing you again.”

“And you, Cal.”

_Phew. Good fucking riddance._

They walk away from the till, and Eggsy breathes out in relief. “The fuck was all _that_ about?” he asks, a tad annoyed. 

“Long version or short?” David asks, eyeing him rather wickedly as they move towards the group of people huddled together next to another member of the Glenlivet staff.

“Short, please,” Eggsy replies. _For the love of God._

“Cal is what one would commonly call an _ex_ ,” David says, simply.

_Course he bloody is. Tell me something I don’t know, smug arse._

Eggsy rolls his eyes and waits for David to deliver more, but in vain. “Oh? That it?” he prompts, impatiently, after ten whole seconds of standing in silence.

“You’re the one who said ‘short version’, y’dafty. If you want a detailed account on how the _sex_ was, I’m happy to give you one when we’re finally out of this hellhole.”

Eggsy is dumbfounded for a while—because what the _fuck_ is he supposed to say to that? _Yes, please, I'm all ears: do go into the nitty-gritty of your (I’m assuming) multiple sexual encounters with that smartly-dressed Game of Thrones wildling_? Or maybe _I’d much rather you showed me_?

Just as he’s _almost_ settled on the second option, opening his mouth to retort, the tour guide starts talking, welcoming everyone and introducing herself, and the moment is all but gone.

The tour—well, the part they actually get to follow, more like—turns out to be quite interesting. They learn all about the history of Glenlivet and how whisky is made. They even get to touch and smell some malted barley and _grist_ , and Eggsy is so involved for a second that he actually thinks of raising a hand and asking some follow-up questions. 

Unfortunately, this is not a field trip but a very important, very _silly_ treasure hunt they’re on, so they eventually have to abandon the group and the tour altogether. They take a chance and detach from everyone while the guide is leading them to the room where all the copper pot stills are kept—the very cool, very shiny ones from the brochures that Eggsy kind of really wanted to see—and slip out, keeping close to the walls and looking right and left to make sure no-one’s following them.

It takes them only five minutes of brisk walking to get to Blairfindy Castle—well, what’s left of it. Eggsy stands by his appraisal: the thing really shouldn’t be called a castle.

“Well, then,” Eggsy says, after a while, breaking the short silence that has fallen while they were both assessing the outside of the building, looking for visible clues. “What d’you say: shall we venture into the Shrieking Shack?”

For a second, David looks like he wants to say something—even opens his mouth a tad, but ultimately closes it and raises an inquiring and quite confused eyebrow. _My oh my, Budd_ , Eggsy thinks. _Pop culture is really not your forte, eh, mate?_

“Seriously? You quote Pixar films at me, but Potter references fly over your head?” Eggsy asks, fake-exasperated. “Ah, well. Guess I’ll be adding a boxset to the list of things I’ll have to get you when this thing is done—things that you definitely don’t deserve, by the way. Consider it a form of civil service.”

David nods in resigned assent. “Shall we, then?” he says, with a show of hands towards the entrance to the ruin.

“Absolutely, Eggsy replies, taking a few steps forwards and stopping in the threshold to add, “And don’t worry, sweet’eart: I’ll shield you from the mean ghosts with my strong, strong body.”

After a few minutes of fruitlessly walking around the (small and admittedly quite oppressing) castle ruins, Eggsy gets so bored he starts to disappear behind corners, as far as the chain would let him go, and wait until David is completely absorbed in looking at one particular stone or spider web or weird symbol on the wall to sneak up on him and make a silly scary noise—successfully making David jump three times in a row and earning himself a string of rather flattering-sounding insults in Gaelic. 

On the last occurrence, though, David doesn’t say much. He just stops in his tracks, and looks to be blankly staring at a spot near the top of a particularly wrecked bit of wall, his expression serious and focused.

“What is it, Budd? Too much for you?” Eggsy badgers him, deliberately poking a bulky bicep with his index finger, and trying not to think of wrapping a whole hand around it.

“Oh, would you just _stop_ fucking about, Eggsy,” David says, sounding officially annoyed. “We’re on a schedule. And I think I just spotted something. There, look.”

Eggsy follows David’s pointed finger and immediately sees it: a small object, made of stone like the rest of the castle around them, but looking distinctly more modern and like it doesn’t really belong there. It’s quite high up a wall that looks to be extremely fragile—no real way to nudge his feet anywhere and know for sure whether the structure will hold, and the ledge is too high up to attempt reaching it with just a jump. However, with a bit of help, Eggsy reckons he can absolutely try.

“Right. Well, gimme a hand then, big boy. Look at this bloody wall: can’t really risk having it crumble on us,” he says, walking up said wall and eyeing David expectantly.

David looks a bit unsure for a split-second, but ends up nodding. “Okay. How’d you want me to—”

“Just wait for me to jump up: when I do, be ready and just… um, I guess… give me a good push further upwards?” Eggsy directs him, awkwardly. “Might also need you to hold me up for a few moments. You okay with that?” _You okay with having my big butt in your face?_

“Absolutely. Let’s do this, c’mon,” he says, sounding—what, a bit eager, maybe? _Alright, Budd. Buy me dinner first._

In a show of strain that to Eggsy feels a touch overdramatic— _but also, is that how he grunts when he fucks?_ —David manages to get Eggsy high up enough that he can grab the edge of the crumbling wall with one hand and retrieve the small box with the other, then lower him back down. _So fucking strong. Teamwork, eh? Can definitely live with it, no problem._

“Ta,” Eggsy tells David, landing softly on his feet and handing him the hefty box. “Shall we?”

“I’ll admit, I quite enjoy this bit,” David replies, with a sweet smile.

They bring their shackled hands closer together and touch the top of the box, which immediately reacts with a mechanical whir. 

“We really are the less busty, considerably less skilled-for-survival and regretfully male versions of Lara Croft, aren’t we?” David observes, while the thing is slowly springing open. _Aren’t you absolutely adorable_ , Eggsy thinks, half-lost watching another snippet of his idyllic bedroom reverie, in which Dream-Eggsy is caressing Dream-David’s jawline and nibbling on his perfect, plump lower lip. _Once again, fuck off._

“Honestly, David, you should be kinder to yourself: you’ve got _great_ tits, mate,” Eggsy replies, without really thinking about it. 

Just as Eggsy’s about to kick himself for saying that out loud, he notices that David is actually standing a bit taller and giving him a side look. “ _You_ would know, wouldn’t ya,” he replies and—wow, is he _blushing_? “Hey, look at these!” David immediately continues, cutting off the memory of Eggsy’s hands on those stupidly hard pecs, as the box is finally open and he’s able to retrieve its contents. He shows Eggsy two small objects— _lapel pins, Eggsy_ , Harry’s voice somehow helpfully interjects—in the shape of roses. One in red, the other in dark blue and green tartan. _Seriously, what is it with Scots and tartan?_

“ _Adorable_ ,” Eggsy says, sarcastically, but smiling in genuine amusement. “And finally something we can actually wear. Let’s pin ‘em on for the picture, eh? They’ll be chuffed, I’m sure. Here, let me,” he says, picking the blue and green rose out of David’s fingers. Their eyes meet for a split-second, and—

“Yeah, go ahead. Careful, though—betting these aren’t poisoned, but if they’re really the ones from the shop that I’m familiar with, I can confirm they’re so sharp they could probably be used to poke an eye out,” David tells him, with a knowing smile.

“You’d better stay very still, then, ‘adn’t you?” Eggsy replies, focusing on the task at hand—his hands on David’s chest, piercing the delicate fabric with the pin, his hands _on David’s chest_ , straightening the pin and fixing the protective end back in place, _his hands on David’s chest_. “All good,” he says, feeling his heartbeat quicken a tad as he admires his work and makes a point of absolutely _not_ looking David in the eye.

“My turn then, eh?” David replies, as if it wasn’t a big fucking deal. “Here, hold this though. Need both hands,” he says, holding the empty box out for Eggsy to grab. Eggsy does, nods, _go ahead, I guess_ , to which David furrows his brow, unsheathes the pointy end of the pin and makes a quick work of fixing it on the left side of Eggsy’s chest. “Look at this: Royal tartan—fit for a Kingsman,” he comments, appreciatively, giving Eggsy an absolutely dazzling smile.

_Fuuuuck. Quick, diffuse the tension, say something idiotic, you’re usually bloody good at it. This is the time, smart-arse: now or never._

“Hardly a Kingsman, really. Maybe one day I’ll tell you the whole story,” he utters, vaguely.

David raises an eyebrow and smiles knowingly. “Oh? Did ye _really_ shag yer boss, then?”

Eggsy goes very rigid, at that, and David one hundred percent notices. “Um. I—”

“Ugh sorry, sorry, ignore me,” David hurriedly cuts him off. “Absolutely not my place. Would love tae hear that story one day. About yer recruitment, I mean, no’—” he pauses, bites his lip and looks like he wants the earth to swallow him whole. 

“It’s alright, David, really,” Eggsy says, winking at him. _Really not your fault I’ve fallen for a man twice my age who ultimately ended up giving me the boot. If you want to kiss it better, however—_ “C’mon, get the phone out and let’s take this selfie before they can tell us we’re slacking off,” he adds, before he can once again get lost in his own silly musings.

David snaps a picture of them both, big smiles and rose pins, and immediately shoots it into the ether to Merlin and Hume via _fucking_ MMS, because it’s apparently 2006 all over again. Thirty seconds later, the phone starts buzzing: David picks it up and puts it on speaker.

“Well done you beautiful bastards,” Merlin rumbles appreciatively at the end of the line.

“Merlin just lost a wager, fellas,” Hume chips in. “I bet him fifty quid you’d be good enough with each other by now to actually pin those things to yourselves—turns out I was right, and now Kingsman’s most brilliant member owes me more than a couple of pints, don’t you, Merlin? This is just in case you were wondering which one of us is actually rooting for you lovebirds, by the way.”

 _Lovebirds_ , Eggsy thinks. _Did those hikers somehow get to Glenglassaugh at record speed and blabbed about the Honeymoon Bondage Guys there, too? But also: am I really supposed to believe Hume doesn’t know about his two best agents hooking up?_

“Oh do shut up, Hume,” Merlin retorts, sounding mildly annoyed but still in a good mood.

David glances at Eggsy, grinning. _Christ, is that what David and I sound when we bicker?_ “Fellas,” Merlin then says, his voice booming out of the speakers once again. “C’mon, back to it. You have just one hour for your next task, but don’t be alarmed: your destination is Drumin Castle, which is just a brisk walk away from where you are.”

“Good luck, boys,” Hume adds, and then the line goes dead, before David or Eggsy can get a single word in.

“Always lovely to have them on the phone. Truly the highlight of my day,” Eggsy comments, rolling his eyes.

“Ditto,” David agrees. “Here’s to having them off our arses in a few hours, hopefully.” _And here’s to me having you_ in _my arse, hopefully very soon_ , Dream-Eggsy interjects again before Eggsy can stop him. Eggsy would be partial to him shutting the fuck up for the rest of the day, if at all possible.

“Come along, Budd. One more left. We’ve bloody got this,” Eggsy says instead, trying to sound confident and chipper but secretly worrying about the mere sixty minutes they have to complete the task.

“Yeah, we have,” David replies, unpromptedly clasping Eggsy’s hand once again and making Eggsy’s heart jump in his throat. “Let’s show ‘em.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That was _intense_ , wasn't it? So many fake-married antics, so many _feelings_ , ugh, our poor poor hearts. We are all Eggsy, people. 
> 
> Please find our map for this first part here:
> 
> And please let us know what you thought of this, we really really loved working on it!
> 
> See you on Friday for the last bit of this ridiculous Tomb Raider side quest!
> 
> Love,
> 
> M and C xx


	10. VII. Progressus - II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Budd, that isn’t just a bicycle,” Eggsy says, with dawning horror. “It’s a _tandem_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends!
> 
> Here we are, back again for one last installment of our ridiculous side quest.
> 
> Not much to say, we're still on the same OTT train and we're all riding this fake-married high, it's great, it's amazing.
> 
> As usual, here's **[our playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0tCAzLfqpNLBVSLl7WOWRM?si=B87rWpz6T6S0VvUtOZBksQ)** to get you in the right mood.
> 
> Happy reading!

_**VII. Progressus - II** _

**_Task V: Drumin Castle_ **

**_B9136, Ballindaloch, 1:27 PM. 30 minutes remaining._ **

The walk from the Castleton of Blairfindy at the Glenlivet Distillery to Drumin Castle is mercifully short and easy, as advised. Eggsy and David follow gloriously smooth paved roads and clear road signs and make quick work of the thirty minute walk. By the time that they pass the car park and the gate leading to the path up to the castle, they are positively vibrating with glee. _This is the last checkpoint. We’ve all but made it._

“So, how far exactly are we from the distillery?” Eggsy breaks the easy silence, finally remembering that they still actually have to make their way back to Clansman. 

David seems to think on it for several long moments, and Eggsy’s gaze becomes fixed on the way his jaw and cheek muscles flex as he works it out. _Staring. You’re staring. Stop staring._

“About forty miles, give or take?” David finally says.

“ _Forty miles?_ ” Eggsy squawks, positively aghast. “There is absolutely no way we can make forty miles on foot before nightfall! That eighteen mile hike yesterday took us six hours!”

“No’ exactly the same, hiking up and down mountains and cycling on maintained highways. Don’t fret yet,” David assures him. “I’m sure this hasn’t been overlooked, and even so. The road between us and there is quite literally a road, and we can most likely find some kind of transport, like a bus—or even hitchhike.”

Eggsy thinks guiltily of the money they’ve just spent on nosh, and realises that it may have been better kept for now, as no bus driver in their right mind would be picking up two shackled young men and transporting them for free. It’s more likely to get them arrested than anything else, and ditto for the hitchhiking, really. What kind of driver, even a friendly one, would pick up two young men who are _literally_ bound together at the wrist?

David, obviously coming to a similar conclusion, grimaces. “Let’s have faith in our quartermasters, and hope they’ve planned this as meticulously as everything else.”

“I suppose we can only worry about the problem ahead of us. And maybe all will be explained when we find the next box,” Eggsy concludes, albeit uncertain in his conviction. _Forty goddamn miles. Fuck, Merlin really is pissed._

“We’re about 500 metres from the Castle now, just through that gate and up the hill,” David says looking up from the information placard at the mouth of the footpath. 

“Onward and upward, then?” Eggsy quips.

“No way to go but forward, my friend. We’ll sort the rest out as it comes.” David reaches out for Eggsy’s hand and squeezes it gently before releasing it and turning once again toward the narrow footpath ahead. 

Within about five minutes, the walls of the castle are well in their sights, and it really is all but a ruin. Two stone walls stand three storeys tall—surprisingly sturdy, even in their current state. There is also, regrettably a steady trickle of tourists coming to and leaving from the site, no way in hell for them to do this completely undetected. Best to just embrace it, now. They have already used the photo-scavenger hunt excuse once, no reason it shouldn’t work again, if they’re asked. 

“David,” Eggsy asks quickly. “Where’s the mobile?”

David fumbles the device out of his pocket. “I have it here, why?” The confusion on his face is absolutely adorable. 

“Just keep it out, yeah? Lots of tourists about, we’re not likely to be able to do this without someone noticing we’re up to something dodgy. We’ll need to use the photo scavenger hunt excuse again, if anyone asks. And it doesn’t make sense unless the mobile is out and you’re ready to take pictures if need be.” 

Eggsy after a moment of consideration, reaches out once again and interlaces their fingers, minimising the amount of attention drawn by their shackles. David nods once in understanding and keeps the phone in his other hand, flipping it open just to be safe. 

“Let’s get this done. Doesn’t look like there’s much there that is actually accessible, so this may be relatively quick.”

“Unless they’ve hidden it somewhere in the surrounding area as another joke,” Eggsy replies, darkly. “Wouldn’t put it past them.” 

David just shrugs. “They’ve done what they’ve done, and we deserve every shred of this and more. I’m kind of surprised they didn’t just drop us from the case weeks ago.”

Eggsy considers this for a moment. “Not really a great model for inter-agency cooperation, were we?” he says, with a wry grin. “But I’m not sure they have a lot of other options.”

David hums in agreement under his breath as they finally make it into the Castle, behind another group of people. This will definitely be a very interesting task, to say the very least. Lucky for them, they still have more than twenty minutes to get this done. 

“Shall we start up top and work our way down?” David suggests. 

“Only logical,” Eggsy chirps, suddenly chipper and ready to go. “Let’s get a move on love, daylight’s a-wasting.”

He starts forward, tugging a bemused David behind him, smiling as they clamber up the steps as high as they can go, starting to look around. _We’ll make it through this. We’ve already gotten through the worst of it, what is forty more miles and a final hidden item?_

Turns out, he’s half right, in any case. They finally locate the Clansman sigil in the cellar of the Castle, and carefully open it without drawing the attention of the buzzing tourists. Luckily for them, the Castle isn’t terribly large or terribly interesting inside. The views, however, are spectacular, and thus most of the people are too busy staring out and taking pictures that they aren’t paying much attention to the two young men staring far too intently at all the walls and fixtures within the building. 

Eggsy peers inside the open stone box, and blinks in confusion. _Is that…_

“Why the fuck would they give us a wire bicycle with earrings attached to the handles?” David says, blinking owlishly in confusion as he reaches in to grab the model.

“Budd, that isn’t just a bicycle,” Eggsy says, with dawning horror. “It’s a _tandem_.”

“Oh fuck no,” David’s face goes slightly ashen. “They’ve gone and gotten us a fucking tandem bike to get back to the distillery, haven’t they?” 

“Only one way to know, I guess,” Eggsy sighs resignedly. “Snap the photo, send it, and we’re sure to find out.”

They gather in close, take a selfie with the little silver bike model, and send it off. Then, they carefully gather themselves and exit the castle to wait with bated breath for the beep that will announce the response they’re waiting for, or, even more likely, a call to give them their final directions. All they can do now is brace themselves, hope that Merlin and Hume don’t keep them waiting too long, and pray to any deity that might be listening that they’re wrong about the tandem bike. 

_Forty miles… Forty miles on a tandem bike. There is no way that Merlin and Hume are letting that one pass them by… Shit, we’re absolutely fucked, aren’t we?_

The phone finally rings. David flips the phone open and jabs the button to accept the call, toggling it to speakerphone. 

“Well done, lads. Knew you could do it,” Hume’s voice spills out of the tinny speakers. “Home stretch now. Just get yourselves back to the distillery by supper time and, on top of a pat on the back for a job well done indeed, we’ll also have something nice waiting.” They can hear the kind smile in the man’s voice.

“Now,” Merlin’s lower burr interrupts, “as for getting here. You may have noticed the nice little clue we left you, with the lovely earbobs attached.” Eggsy and David both groan out loud. _Fucking knew it._

“I hope your communication skills have improved as much as we think they have, lads, because tandem biking is no joke. It takes teamwork, and great communication—all of the things we have been trying to instil in you these past few weeks. So now it’s time for you to prove yourselves.”

“There is a tandem bike in the car park against the fence, as well as some helmets for you poor sods. We know that tandems are dangerous enough as it is, so your shackles will disconnect from each other for as long as you are on the bike. Get off, and they will reconnect,” Hume explains, easing one of their concerns, one of _many_. 

“Safe cycling, boys, see you soon!” 

The line goes dead, and Eggsy looks over at David dumbfounded with horror at being proven right. _Well, shit._

*

**_Final Task: Glenglassaugh Distillery_ **

**_Drumin Castle car park, Ballindaloch. 2:04 PM. 4 hours remaining._ **

Once they gather their jaws off the ground, Eggsy and David return to the car park—still hand in hand—to locate their lovely new mode of transportation. Passing through the gate, they immediately spot the purple aluminium frame propped up against the fence of the enclosure. Eggsy is absolutely certain that it hadn’t been there before, when they arrived at Drumin, which means that someone is keeping a much closer eye on them than he thought. _Typical_ , he thinks wryly to himself. _Can't be trusted with anything, now can we?_

They make their way over to the bike and note the two black helmets hanging from the handlebars and the (praise be) mounts for their packs on the back. Automatically dropping Eggsy’s hand, David makes quick work of hooking up their packs to the bike’s rack, strapping them on firmly. Eggsy, feeling slightly bereft at the loss, reluctantly leaves him to ensure that their load is fastened securely, and grabs the helmet off the front handlebars and starts fiddling with the adjustments for the front seat. 

“What are you doing?” David calls, bent over the back of the bike, securing straps. “ _I’m_ sitting in the Captain’s seat.”

“Captain?” Eggsy says unimpressed at the automatic assertion. “What, I’m not good enough to be the Captain? That’s certainly not what you were saying this morning in the tent when you were being all complimentary about my camp stove skills.” 

“Uh, no,” David says bewildered at the somewhat aggressive response, “the stronger rider, and also the person who _knows the way_ sits in the front.”

Eggsy, immediately taking offense to his tone and condescension, scoffs mockingly. “Oh, I see, you’re the stronger of the two of us, _Captain_ , are you now? And I’m what, the feeble passenger? What do I get to do? Ring the bell, I suppose?” he says, resignedly, flicking the aforementioned bell fixed to the back handlebars. 

“Wha—?” David splutters, clearly off guard. “This has nothing to do with strength, Eggsy. I know the way there and you don’t, nothing to do with how strong ye are. Where is this even coming from?”

Eggsy, completely on a roll and flying off the handle, can’t even keep the next words from pouring out of his mouth, despite his brain telling him to shut up. “So, now you’re explaining bloody _geography_ to me? Like I couldn’t figure it out myself?”

“Can we just get moving?” David says irately, trying to defuse the argument, all while already making his way to mount at the front of the bike. “We’re wasting time arguing about nothing.”

“Of course, _Captain_. Whatever you say _Captain._ ” _Fuck, why can’t I just bloody shut my fat mouth? Obviously I’m upset about him assuming he’s going to take the front seat, but honestly, it’s just a fucking bicycle!_ he thinks to himself furiously.

Eggsy, already pouting and trying very hard to hide it, reluctantly makes his way to the back of the tandem. He carefully swings his leg over the bar and settles his bum into the admittedly quite uncomfortable seat, bouncing in it a couple times to check the response. 

“Would you stop that!” David calls back, shooting an annoyed look over his shoulder. Eggsy glowers in response. This is already not going well. 

“Right then, let’s go,” David continues, ignoring Eggsy’s lack of response, and starts to push the bicycle forward. Eggsy, scrambling to catch up, starts to pedal before David has even gotten his feet off the ground, causing the bike to wobble violently, almost causing them to overset and crash to the ground. They finally manage to salvage their start and make their way slowly towards the road, swaying drunkenly while trying to get their bearings.

They haven’t even been on the road for five minutes when Eggsy breaks the silence. “I can’t even turn!” Eggsy complains, hitting the bell for about the fifth time since they set off.

“Stop trying to turn us, you eejit! And stop hitting the bell!” 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Eggsy cries out as the bike careens dangerously.

“What are you doing back there! Stop it!”

Eggsy shuts his mouth and pointedly ignores David, focusing instead on the passing scenery. They finally get moving without wavering too much, and find a bit of rhythm. 

“Pedal harder! Come on, full speed!” David hollers back at Eggsy as they make their way towards a hill. Eggsy, who is most definitely still pouting at being assigned the role of Stoker and, therefore, barely pedalling, is focusing pointedly anywhere but the man in front of him, which in turn means that he can do nothing but look around at the admittedly quite lovely countryside and get lost in his thoughts while David pedals furiously, trying to get them up the approaching incline. _Maybe I should give him a hand,_ Eggsy muses, pedaling a bit harder, but not putting the full force of his legs into it. _He does look quite handsome, all disheveled like that—even if he does look terribly cross, too._

David, once again interrupting Eggsy’s daydreams with more melodramatic criticisms about his lack of assistance, continues to call back over his shoulder, most of what he says getting lost in the wind. One thing in particular catches Eggsy’s attention and makes him positively hopping mad. 

“I’m the one who steers, you’re the Stoker, which means you have to fucking use those giant thighs and arse of yours to help us move forward!” David shouts in frustration, casting furious looks over his shoulder at Eggsy’s lacklustre effort at propelling them forward, causing the bike to wobble, yet again.

“Oi!” Eggsy calls back annoyed. “I’m not ‘ _stoked’_ about that, _Captain._ Seeing as I’m not really required for this endeavor past having my _giant arse_ in this seat, I’m trying to enjoy the scenery of your bloody adored Highlands, why are you even complaining about that?”

David huffs in annoyance. “That isn’t what I meant, at all. I just want you to pedal faster, Eggsy, _please_ ,” he replies, a little mellower, but his face is still visibly red with exertion and some residual rage.

They progress for a while, David pedalling furiously, Eggsy mutinously being a dead weight on the back of the bike, barely pedalling.

“Awrite, fuck it, I’m stopping.” David bites out, steering the bike off the road into a parking area on the side of the road and starting to hit the brakes. The bike starts to oscillate precariously as it slows down.

“Shiiiit!” Eggsy yelps, attempting to steady them with his right foot. David, who is already planting his left foot to the tarmac, swears violently when the bike convulses beneath them, being pulled in opposite directions, causing them to fall off. 

“Oof!” David huffs as Eggsy, obviously overbalanced, topples off and somehow lands on top of him, while their shackles once again snap together as a result of their unexpected dismount. 

“Shit! Fuck! Ow!”

“Get _off_ of me!” David gasps, as he tries to pull air into his already stressed lungs, wind completely knocked out of him. Eggsy rolls away, and carefully clambers to his feet. David, still winded, lays on the ground a moment longer, bike still tangled around his feet. He carefully extricates himself and clambers gingerly to his feet, leaving the bike on the ground where it fell on top of him. 

“You need to pedal more, Eggsy! I’m doing all the fucking work, and we’re never going to make it in time if you don’t stop faffing about and fucking _help me_!”

“And who exactly made the executive decision and put you in charge? I was just trying to enjoy myself, despite the unfortunate situation, and you’ve done nothing but gripe at me the whole way. I let you have the bloody _Captain’s seat_ anyways, what are you fucking complaining about?”

“You’re fucking right, I’m in the Captain’s seat! I’m the one who bloody knows where we’re going! And while we’re on the subject, stop trying to steer the fucking bike!”

“I’m _not_ steering! The fucking handlebars are fucking fixed in place! How would I be able to steer?” Eggsy exclaims indignantly. 

“Yeah, well stop trying to wobble us all over the place and knock us over, then.”

“ _You’re_ the one that’s off balance.” Eggsy spits out.

“For fuck’s sake, I’m not off balance, you numpty!” 

“Yes you fucking are! You keep trying to tell me how things need to go and how I need to be. You want to be in control of _everything_. You want to tell me how to _do_ everything.”

David’s eyes shine with a dangerous glint. “Every time I come up with an idea, you just belittle it from the beginning! You’re so passive aggressive, it’s absolutely infuriating! And you’re like that with everything since we got on this fucking bike!”

“That’s because they were horrible ideas!”

“It was not a bad idea, you’re the one with bad ideas!” David accuses, poisonous. 

Eggsy huffs loudly and then stills suddenly, all the bravado and fight going out of him. _Oh my god, we’re a couple of idiots._ “Fuck, _this_ is the challenge isn’t it?” he ponders out loud “Trying not to kill each other over this fucking bike.” 

David, whose face has flickered with a myriad of emotions, suddenly droops and his whole body sags in defeat. “Shite. We’ve really made a mess of this, haven’t we?”

“We need to find a way to work together on this and communicate properly. You can’t keep dictating everything to me and expecting me to follow. It hasn’t worked for us before now, and up until we saw this bike, we were able to work together to come up with solutions to the problems. What changed?”

“I think there’s a fucking curse on all tandem bikes, to be honest.” David huffs out a laugh, eyes downcast. “I’ve never been for a ride on one that hasn’t led to an all-out showdown of an argument.”

“Been on a lot of tandem bike rides, Budd?” Eggsy asks, with an arched brow.

“Enough to know that we’ve gone about this all wrong, and part of that is my fault,” David says, apologetically. “As the more experienced rider,” he pauses. “You’ve not been on a tandem before, have you?” Eggsy shakes his head and David continues. “We should have taken the time to go over duties and responsibilities for each rider, and I shouldn’t have just assumed that I would be in front. It _was_ the most logical choice, but it wasn’t my choice to make alone,” he admits finally.

“Okay, thanks. I appreciate that,” Eggsy replies, with a small smile. “So, let’s take a few minutes now to go through all that, yeah? At this point, we’ve already started on the wrong foot and a couple more minutes to get it right won’t hurt us.”

David nods. “Alright, so, first things first. Captain and Stoker. If you really want the Captain’s seat, you can take it, but since I’m the more experienced rider and I know the roads best of the two of us, it ideally should be me taking the helm.” Eggsy glares at him until he relents. “But of course, I can always direct you from behind,” he amends, watching Eggsy’s face soften in pleased satisfaction. _Is that a promise, Budd?_

“The Stoker,” David continues, “is the powerhouse behind the tandem experience. Obviously the Captain can keep the whole operation moving on their own, but having a strong pedaller in the rear really adds a lot of power to the whole thing, hence the name ‘stoker’. Also, the Stoker is charged with making sure that the Captain can keep their eyes ahead on the road and what is happening in front of us, since you can’t see much from behind, it’s important that the Stoker keep an eye on their handlebar mirrors and notify the Captain if there are other cyclists or vehicles approaching from the rear. Best practice is by tapping their back to show the number of vehicles.” David demonstrates the action, tapping himself on the back of the hip using the flat of his palm. “One tap for one car, two for two etc.”

“Right, understood so far.”

“Most important, as I’m sure you’ve probably gathered, is that starting and stopping are an absolute bitch if you don’t communicate,” David says with a wry grin.

“Fucking dangerous too, apparently,” Eggsy concedes. “Sorry for that, by the way.”

David waves off the apology. “As you’ve seen, we need to agree on a protocol for starting and stopping. Generally, counting down as we push off is good practice, and making sure our pedals are at the same level so that we are pushing with the same leverage when we are at our most unstable.” He pauses. “And when stopping, we absolutely have to set down on the same leg or we will have a repeat of earlier—and we might not be so lucky and end up doing it in front of an oncoming vehicle, next time.”

Eggsy winces. “Right. Shit. Of course.”

“Key to this, as Merlin mentioned, is communication. So we need to think about that, even as we get annoyed with each other. And because these fecking things are cursed, we _will_ get annoyed with each other again, I guarantee it.”

Eggsy nods. “Okay, so does that mean I can try sitting in the Captain’s seat for a bit? I promise: if I suck at it, we can switch back,” he says, pleadingly, with his best puppy dog eyes. 

David it appears to be defenseless against the look and softens considerably. “Of course you can try it,” he concedes. “Let’s just look over the map and make sure we both know where we’re going, and decide on the basics?”

Eggsy nods emphatically, extremely eager to get to try to sit in the _Captain’s seat_ and ready to agree to pretty much anything to get there. _Finally_. 

“I’m good with what you suggested: the counting down and having the pedal at the same level for starting. Would you be good with right foot down for stopping and starting?” Eggsy asks quickly, trying to get the boring details out of the way.

“That’s fine with me. Still good with the taps on the back to notify you of approaching cars?”

“Yes. All good with that,” Eggsy agrees quickly. “Is there anything else we need to agree on before we check the route?”

David mulls it over quickly and shakes his head. “I think those are the basics, for now at least. We can always change things up if we have any issues.” 

At that, Eggsy reaches out to right the bicycle, needing to get into his rucksack for the map, David’s hands appear in the periphery of his vision, reaching and steadying the front of the frame, allowing Eggsy to dig in their luggage for the necessary items. 

“Got it!” Eggsy crows triumphantly, pulling out the map and carefully unfolding it and tracing his finger over the crisscrossing lines until he zeroes in on the area where he thinks they probably are. “David, we’re here right?” he inquires, indicating a spot on the map.

“Thereabouts, aye,” David confirms and reaches out to smooth his finger along a route. “We’ll have to continue following the B9009 for another eight miles or so, until we hit Dufftown. Then we’ll take the 9014 for about another ten miles. How about we see how you’re doing once we get to Keith? At that point, if you’re still good to keep the Captain’s seat, you can stay there, or we can switch out then. That’s a bit more than halfway, I’d say.”

“That seems more than fair. I appreciate the _concession_ Budd,” Eggsy teases, with a wink and a side smirk.

Eggsy once again folds the map and stows it away carefully. Although it is unlikely that it will be needed again between here and the distillery, if being an agent has taught him anything, it’s that the least expected things happen constantly, and if he loses the map now, he will _definitely_ regret it.

“Right, then,” David finally says, briskly, after everything is back in its place and the bike is upright once again. “Shall we? _Captain_?” he adds with a showy bow, motioning to Eggsy his new seat, raising an eyebrow and smirking in that smug and stupidly attractive way that has Eggsy weak at the knees.

“You’ve gotta admit that does sound sexier,” Eggsy replies, winking and finally settling in the front seat of the tandem. “Ready when you are, Budd. Let’s get the fuck home.”

After a bit of obligatory adjusting to the rules and customs of tandem biking that David really should have taken the time to explain to him _before_ they had the chance to almost slip into their old petty adolescent ways, they ultimately picking up a decent pace: ten full minutes of both pedalling at the same pace, in almost perfect sync, have Eggsy all puffed up and proud of how much of a natural he is at this _being Captain_ thing, which he absolutely does convey out loud to a not-very-impressed-sounding David at every chance he gets. _That’ll teach you to underestimate me, you gorgeous moron._

They get to a particularly steep hill, at one point: one of those that you can see coming from miles away, and that you’re still not ready for by the time you get to the base; one of those that fill you with absolute dread; one of those that would make one glad to be riding an electric bike. And yet, Eggsy marvels, they don’t seem to falter for even just a second. By the time they get to the top Eggsy is breathing hard, sure, and he’s got a few droplets of sweat trickling down the sides of his neck, but other than that he has to conclude that David Budd and his gorgeous arse and quads might well be better than an electric engine, after all.

It’s all flat road for a while, after the hill, and Eggsy is already savouring switching to a more comfortable gear and cruising leisurely at a pace that would potentially dry off his sweat, when the bike starts imperceptibly slowing down, as if it was dying. For the millionth time in the span of a few hours, he finds himself wondering _what the fuck is happening?_ , but he still hesitates speaking his mind for a couple of beats: maybe David is just catching his breath, maybe that’s why he’s not pedaling as hard, maybe—

A car whooshes past them at a frankly quite dangerous speed.

“Damn, David—you alive, back there, mate?” Eggsy prompts, officially realising that something may be wrong with his self-proclaimed tandem expert partner. 

“Um, yes, yes, sorry,” David says hurriedly. “Sorry, didn’t really see that car. It came too fast, didn’t it?”

 _Kinda the point of having you tap my back, isn’t it, chief?_ Eggsy thinks, but doesn’t say it out loud. “Right, course. Man, I do hope we’ll get there in one piece,” he muses instead, as—what do you know, the bike starts moving faster once again, and it doesn’t feel like Eggsy is pedaling alone anymore.

 _Oh. Wouldn’t our broken Caledonian soldier perchance happen to be a tad distracted?_ Eggsy so wishes he was able to stream this to Roxy and send her live reactions: his _giant butt_ seems to have reaped another victim, in the end.

So begins a rather amusing game of throwing random bits of conversation around, with the sole purpose of keeping David focused on doing his part of the work. Eggsy gets so into it, so quickly, that he stops paying attention to street directions and names altogether. They’re all jumbled up into one, anyways—these Scots and their _glens_ and their _invers_ and _abers_ , what the fuck even _is_ this language and why is it still a thing?—and it’s impossible to keep track of which is which. Plus, David’s light touches on the small of his back (when he remembers to prevent Eggsy from having a heart attack at the umpteenth car he hadn’t anticipated) are really, really hard not to linger on. He even has to fend off Dream-Eggsy’s insufferable recapitulation of last night’s events, momentaneously solely focused on how David’s hands felt digging in his waist and keeping him steady when he was—

“ _Fucking_ hell, Eggsy, are you listening to me?” David says, sounding rather annoyed and tapping Eggsy’s lower back with the back of his hand. _Ow. Definitely not something to linger on, this one._

“Sorry, no, bit lost in admiring your stupid pretty wild country,” he lies through his teeth, hoping his temporary spacing out will go unnoticed.

“Admiring nature but not reading the fucking signs, apparently,” David observes, sassily, but also audibly smiling. “How the fuck did we end up in fucking _Aultmore_?”

“Hey, _hey_!” Eggsy exclaims, embarrassed, pedalling a tad more vehemently, as if it’d help him make a point. “I _asked_ you, ten minutes ago, at that crossroads. You definitely said left.”

David doesn’t reply for a good couple of seconds. When he does break the silence, however, it’s to say, “Well. Really don’t recall you asking me that. Must’ve…” he trails off, and his sentence gets lost in a particularly violent gust of wind.

Eggsy rolls his eyes, but can’t help but smile to himself and write that down in the already mile-long list of things he’ll have to include in his report to Roxy. _So distracted he got us off track. Knew all those squats would be good for something._

“You definitely _must’ve_ , yeah,” Eggsy replies, biting his lip to stifle a chuckle. “Want to stop for a sec, reassess? You really don’t sound like you know where we are, _Captain_ ,” he taunts David, whom he just can _feel_ is already blushing.

“Probably for the best,” David agrees, without hesitation.

They stir the tandem towards the side of the road and pick up the map again. While David is engrossed in looking at the map, his sweaty brow furrowed and his gorgeous lips pursed in concentration, Eggsy can’t help but just neglect the route-planning activity completely and concentrate on the residual colour on David’s cheeks, his broad, heaving chest, his hairy arms, his—

“...just have to turn right, and we’ll be back on track. Got it?” David asks, finally raising his eyes from the map and looking at Eggsy insistently.

_Nah, bruv. Most definitely don’t got it._

“Um. Sorry, tired. Again, please? Show me on here?” Eggsy asks, fully owning his dumbassery.

“What have I been… Ah, forget it,” David interrupts himself, lowering his head and grinning, a tad exasperated. “Come on, bloody focus now. Look at my finger on the map. Can’t really make it any simpler.”

Eggsy does, and Eggsy gets it. However, Eggsy still thinks it’s time to even stuff out a bit, so he promptly speaks his mind.

“Alright, I think I got it now. I’d hate to get us lost again, though—what with the time limit looming and all… Mind relieving me?”

David smiles triumphantly down at him. “Not at all.”

Back on the bike, since David is now paying attention to the road and the only thing remaining to be done is pedalling and minding the frankly rarer and rarer passing cars, Eggsy indulges in looking at David’s ridiculously ripped back. He finds himself getting lost in the ridges of David’s muscles, wondering how it would feel to skim his finger over every hill and valley, how the taut skin would look all scratched up after some rough lovemaking. He’s seen David’s naked torso once before—hells, he’s seen much more than that, on that same occasion, since David decided to take a rather loud shower, that one time, and stroll out of it balls naked—but his back, never. Never had the pleasure. Would very much _like_ to have the pleasure.

Like that, he spends the remaining time on the bike oscillating between getting lost in sexual fantasies and actually looking at the beautiful scenery they’re cycling through. Minutes seem to positively fly by, and before he realises they’re pulling into the Glenglassaugh Distillery car park and ditching the bike on the rail next to the pedestrian path that goes up to the visitors centre. They dismount, witness their shackles locking together again, pick their rucksacks back up and start strolling with purpose towards the entrance of the building.

When Eggsy spots the familiar faces of Hume and Merlin—whom both he and David haven’t stopped cursing for one _second_ in the past day and a half (which really has felt like a good couple of weeks)—he finds he doesn’t even really feel any resentment towards them: the only things left in him are profound contentedness and tumultuous pride at his and David’s success. He almost wants to clasp David’s hand once more, but he doesn’t quite dare: there’s no-one to show off to, anyways, it’s not like—

David nudges the back of Eggsy’s hand with his, and Eggsy’s heart does a somersault. _Well. If you insist._

He almost doesn’t listen to the quartermasters showering them with praise. David’s hand, still in his even after a rather long five minutes spent handing in the different talismans— _keep those roses, though: they suit you_ —and summarising their itinerary as vaguely as they can muster, somehow overpowers even the _bravos_ and the _well dones_ that Eggsy is normally _lives_ for.

Ten minutes later, unshackled from David at last, naked and under a steaming shower, that gesture—that fierce, fiery grasp that says _I’ve got you_ —is still everything Eggsy’s thinking about.

That night, finally in a real bed, wearing clean PJs and weighed down by blankets, he’s still buzzing from it all. The days in the Highlands wilderness, the night in the tent, the whisky, the, yeah, alright, _jealousy_. His mind is whirring so loudly, it threatens to keep him awake for a while. It’s his body that eventually gives up, however—drained from exhaustion and in serious need of just shutting down for a while. When he falls asleep, it’s with a smile on his face and David’s name on his lips. 

When he dreams, he’s floating, he’s in heaven—and heaven looks awfully like somewhere he’s been before, and yet, at the same time, so hopelessly unattainable. Heaven is Eggsy’s favourite place: a king-size bed on a lazy Sunday morning when it’s raining outside. Heaven smells like sex and lavender fabric softener. Heaven is the weight of that body on his. Heaven is kissing those lips like he has every right to. Heaven is over him, around him, inside him, pinning him to the covers and making him beg for more.

Heaven is—

Heaven might just be David.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weeeelll. Phew. We got to the end of this, people. In case you were interested in the map for day 2, here it is:
> 
> Congratulations on making it to the end of this very long but, we think, very necessary adventure for our boys to finally, _finally_ be at peace with each other, and meander into the sweet realm of gay panic and mutual pining. Are we ready? Probably, definitely not.
> 
> See you veeeery soon!
> 
> Love,
> 
> M and C xx


	11. VIII. Expiscimur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is _perfect_ , David,” Eggsy whispers, barely moving his lips as he talks and inching a bit closer still. “Now kiss me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey girls and gays, it's Tuesday again and we're back!
> 
> After a couple of rather intense weeks, we're back to our regularly scheduled programming—posting _once_ a week (thank God). That was such a marathon, you have no idea *dries sweat*
> 
> Today, we're off the mountains and fully back to civilisation, and, well, we've got a bit of a different one for you. It's an alternating POV—we thought it just worked better this way, since we have not just one but _two_ idiots falling slowly but surely in love, and we wanted to cover all bases. We really hope this isn't confusing. (But also, for your reference, it goes: David, Eggsy, Eggsy, David.) 
> 
> Here is an extra cutie-patootie **[playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5ZXQ6Moj2HjCAngv3R4HLy?si=QGYp4RuTToSBwM583rMD3w)** for you all, which we hope will get you all warm and fuzzy and... *sighs dreamily*
> 
> Happy reading!

**_VIII. Expiscimur_ **

**_Shared Clansman flat, Hillhead, Glasgow. Late April. Sometime after midnight._ **

David leans back against the side of the couch, readjusting for the millionth time, trying to get more comfortable on the floor, a myriad of loose paper and photos strewn around him. Although it is not terribly long past midnight, closer to 1 AM, David is alone in the lounge, rifling through paperwork and old evidence that they gathered during their previous attempts at espionage on the disappearances. He’s certain that there must be _something_ here, but he’s not even sure what he’s looking for: he’s hoping something will just magically start jumping out at him, he supposes. 

As he flips through a file for the tenth time in the last hour, he hears a noise from down the hall that makes him look up. Eggsy, who went to bed a couple of hours ago, now appears to be walking into the room, bed-rumpled and adorable in just a pair of pants, tugging a t-shirt—one of David’s own army tees again, he’s pleased to note—over his sleepy, dishevelled head. Locking eyes with David, he leans against the doorway and asks, “What are you still doing up?”

“I could ask you the same thing. What’s got ye up?”

“I thought I heard something, and it turns out I was right,” Eggsy says, with a wry smile, gesturing at the mess around David. “Now, what’s going on?”

David reaches forward, grabs another file and flips the docket open, fanning through the paperwork without really looking at it. “Something’s been bothering me about all this, and I can’t put my finger on it.”

Eggsy perks up, looking slightly more awake and moves further into the room and plops himself down on the floor next to David. “What can I do to help?”

David looks a bit startled, but grateful. “I’m not even sure what I’m looking for, but I know we must be missing something. I know I was— _distracted_ , to say the least—when we first collected all this, and I didn’t give it the attention I should have. I’m trying to do exactly that, now.” He looks up at Eggsy and grimaces. “Not a very fun midnight activity, I know. It’s fine, you should go back to bed. I’ll wake you if there is anything urgent—or if I find something amazing,” he adds, with a half-smile.

Eggsy shakes his head and starts pulling folders closer to him. “This is my case too, and we were both, as you said, distracted—doing our best to mess with each other like a couple of knob’eads. I should help you figure out the mess we made for ourselves.”

“Thanks, Eggsy. Appreciate that a lot.” David, using the couch for leverage, stands and stretches. He smiles at Eggsy with more conviction, now. “I could use a coffee, actually. Would ye like one?”

Eggsy, still flipping through the file folders, looks up at him with a smile and nods, “Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.” 

David moves to the kitchen area, still stretching tired and stiff muscles. Once there, he grabs the kettle and fills it before setting it on the hob. He straightens and grabs for the coffee grounds, then quickly fills the press before pausing and leaning against the counter to wait. As he does, he finds himself idly staring at the man sitting across the room, head bent over papers, yellow highlighter between his teeth. He stares enrapt until the sound of a whistling kettle startles him back to the present. He quickly turns off the burner and pours the hot water over the prepared grounds in the french press, the smell of coffee beginning to permeate the room. 

A few minutes later, David re-enters the lounge with two mugs in hand. Eggsy, he thinks, looks absolutely adorable, eyebrows drawn together with a furrow between them as he concentrates. ( _Adorable_ , it seems, is a word David’s starting to use quite a bit to describe Eggsy in his inner conversations—and he still hasn’t decided what that means.)

“Here’s yer coffee. Have you found anything?”

“I might have,” Eggsy says uncertainly, reaching for the cup and taking a sip. “I just need to check a couple of records more. Would you mind handing me the files from Sandviken and Asker?” He continues to flip through the three stacks of paper in front of him. 

David wordlessly settles himself back on the ground, taking a fortifying sip of coffee before setting it back down and starting to dig through the piles of paper to his left. Finding the two files in question, he grabs them from the pile, nearly causing an avalanche of papers as he does so. He hands them over, doing his best to avoid further destruction and then leans forward, craning his neck to try to read over Eggsy’s shoulder. 

He leans a bit closer, sniffing as unobtrusively as he can at Eggsy’s neck, trying to breathe in some of Eggsy’s scent. David closes his eyes briefly in contentment— _well done, David, you creep_ , he says to himself a second later, then attempts to focus again on the documents in front of them. He sees Eggsy flipping open the two new files and pulling out one singular photo from each of file folders, then lining them up in a row with the two he had already out, on display in front of them.

“What do you see?” he asks, looking at David expectantly.

David tries to clear his brain of the fog of delicious smelling man that has temporarily robbed his senses and focus again on the images in front of them. He blinks idiotically for a moment too long and says the first thing that comes to mind. “Um, dead people?” 

Eggsy tuts. “Cute, Budd. But look _beyond_ that. Is there anything else that you see?” He looks expectant and triumphant.

David looks again, more closely, still uncertain as to what he’s supposed to be seeing, these are all pictures he’s looked at countless times over the last few hours, and he’s seen nothing up until this point. 

Eggsy impatiently grabs the medical records from the corresponding files and starts underlining passages in yellow before shoving them into David’s hands. 

“Typical,” Eggsy huffs. “Just read these and if you don’t get it after that, I’m absolutely sending you to bed, because you’re bloody useless to me right now,” he teases, eyes shining. _You’re beautiful_ , David thinks to himself before giving himself a good mental shake and focusing back on the documents in front of him. _Maybe I should go to bed. I’m being absolutely ridiculous._

He focuses hard on the words on the page, eyes flicking every so often at the line of photographs that Eggsy had amassed, and his mouth drops open in shock. _How the fuck did I miss this?_ He thinks incredulously to himself. He’s been up for hours, pouring over all this information over and over—and Eggsy has pulled it all together in less than an hour. _Fuck, he really is as good as Merlin claims he is, after all._

“How did we miss this?” David tells himself, out loud this time. “I feel like a fucking moron. We could have been following these leads _weeks_ ago.”

“Weeks ago, we were squabbling like kids, mate,” Eggsy offers, a comforting smile immediately appearing on his face. “No way we would have even noticed if a pair of dead people stood up and walked away in front of us.”

That isn’t at all far from the truth—which is a horrifying thought. _Jesus, how have I been so thick as to let my own daft ego get in the way of something this big?_

“Do any of these doctors have any idea of what caused these markings?”

“Most of the files we have make mention of an insect bite and neuro symptoms. But no idea what actually caused it. To be frank, the biggest gap in all of these records is that none of these people actually made it to the autopsy—if they were even scheduled for one—so we have no idea what the real cause of death is for any of them. Probably best we gather all this up and bring it to Hume tomorrow. I’d feel better if someone with an actual brain confirmed what we think we’re seeing.”

David looks up at the clock to check the time—fucking 3 AM already. They both have long since discarded the dregs of their coffee, and are clearly fading fast, regardless of the initial caffeine buzz. He catches yet another of Eggsy’s expansive yawns and agrees silently: it is more than past time for bed. 

“Back to bed with you,” David urges. “You’ve done great work, and I appreciate it, but you really should take the kip, mate.”

“Nah,” Eggsy disagrees, leaning back against the couch, still fiddling with and straightening the papers and files. “Was thinking about watching a bit of telly first. Brain is still spinning.”

David nods, settling back once again next to Eggsy on the floor, carpet plush under him. “What were you thinking? I’d be up for a bit of trash telly right now.”

Eggsy’s brows arch in visible surprise—no, actually: that’s _bewilderment_ , alright.

“You, David Budd, are telling me that you’re up for watching brain rotting television right now?” he teases. “The man who self-admittedly doesn’t own a television? The same man who doesn’t acknowledge approximately 90% of the pop culture references I make?”

David grumbles good naturedly at the teasing but shrugs. “What can I say? It’s a disease. I avoided it as long as I could, but the rest of you have bewitched me with the wonders of the likes of _Drag Race_ and _Bake Off_ and now I may be forever lost and my brain cells forever forfeit after watching _Tiger King_.”

Eggsy just shudders. “Mate, you know you shouldn’t watch everything just because it’s trending on Netflix, right?”

David just waves him off. “So, what were you thinking, for tonight?”

Eggsy bites his bottom lip and pauses, looking very tentative and unsure all of a sudden. “Was thinking maybe _Grey’s Anatomy_?”

David just continues to stare at him blankly, no fucking clue what that even is, he supposes it can’t be worse than anything he’s been watching lately. “Sure, if that’s what you want tae watch.”

“I’m guessing you’ve never seen it, if your face is anything to go by?” Eggsy says, peering up at him and reaching for the remote.

“No, but I trust ye.” David continues to organise papers into neat piles, then pulls some throw pillows off the couch to make them more comfortable. 

Eggsy grins a bit evilly. “You _really_ shouldn’t. But you’ll learn soon enough.” He queues up an episode and hits play. 

David, at once enraptured by the quite frankly ridiculous drama unfolding on the screen in front of him, doesn’t realise right away that Eggsy has fallen asleep next to him until the man’s head drops softly onto his shoulder. David considers for a moment waking him up and sending him to bed, but then something ridiculous happens on the screen and he’s drawn back in. Eventually, he too succumbs to sleep, his body slumping to the floor, Eggsy curling up next to him, snuggled into his chest.

*

**_Shared Clansman flat, Hillhead, Glasgow. Living room floor. Early morning._ **

The next morning, Eggsy is woken up, not by the sound of an alarm or the sounds of David banging about the flat coming back from his run, but by a bright ray of sunshine in his face. As he generally sleeps with his blinds shut to avoid such an occurrence, he tries to ignore it as best he can by burrowing his face into his pillow to hide from the mean bright light. 

As it turns out, his pillow is much more firm than usual, and it smells remarkably like David. He breathes in deeply, eyes still shut, and rubs his face again against the soft cotton of David’s T-shirt. As awareness returns to him, he realises that he is wedged between something quite firm behind him— _the couch_ , his mind provides absently—and a long hard line of another muscular body along his front. His leg, he notes, is slotted quite comfortably over one of what he now assumes must be David’s legs, and his groin and very interested erection are pressed quite firmly against David’s hip. _Fuck._

He slowly blinks his eyes open, sunlight pouring in through the windows. He absently notes that the television screen is still lit up with the ‘Are you still watching?’ banner. He closes his eyes again and luxuriates in the feeling of David’s arm around him and then eventually, slowly tries to extricate himself from David’s embrace, primarily to remove his more than awake cock from a potentially embarrassing situation. As he moves, he jostles David a tad, pulling him slightly from slumber. 

“Whassat,” David mumbles unintelligibly, obviously still more than half asleep as his arms tighten once more around Eggsy, causing him to crash back even more fully against his chest.

“Oof,” Eggsy breathes out, surprised. David’s unexpected action has caused Eggsy to overset and fall back more firmly into him, they are now pressed together tightly from chest to pelvis. _Fuck_ , Eggsy thinks to himself again, trying in vain to shift so that his morning wood isn’t pressed quite so insistently into David’s groin. 

For his part, David—still seemingly mostly asleep despite Eggsy’s body coming to rest quite heavily against his—tightens his arms, noses into Eggsy’s neck, inhaling deeply, then rolls his hips, slotting their, _oh, Jesus fucking Christ_ , erections together, shocking a moan from Eggsy’s slack mouth. David rolls his hips again, the friction causing frissions of pleasure to race up and down Eggsy’s spine even as he continues to panic.

 _David’s with Julia_ , the mildly lucid side of Eggsy tries to reason with him. _I can’t be doing this_. He tries to launch on a desperate debate with himself, then promptly fails to keep his mind straight, so he moans again as quietly as he possibly can, given the stimulation and the situation. _Fuck, but it’s been way too long_ , the horned devil on his shoulder says, wickedly. _You’re lost already—what’s a few more seconds going to do, eh?_

Eggsy lets himself be carried away by the pleasure coursing through his body for several long moments—before a jangling tune and vibration from David’s mobile startles him back to reality. _Fuck, fuck, what the fuck am I doing?_ He finally wrests some control back into his own limbs, throws himself back and lands on the floor about a foot away, head right next to the offending device buzzing insistently against the glass of the table, the sudden clamor finally waking David up fully. 

They stare at each other for a long moment, the evidence of their arousal plain through boxers and sleep trousers. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” David rasps, as he takes in what has happened and pushes himself into a somewhat seated position. His eyes seek out Eggsy’s, concerned for a moment before darting wildly around the room seeking out his ringing mobile. 

Eggsy grabs the offending device, inadvertently looking at the screen briefly before handing it over, noting the unfamiliar name of the caller. “S’all good mate. It’s Ella,” he says, quite unnecessarily, before scrambling to his feet and all but making a break for it out of the room. 

He sees David’s eyebrows shoot up in alarm as he grabs for the phone, brushing his hand against Eggsy’s in his haste before bringing it up to his face, accepting the call immediately. 

“Hello, darling. Are you alright?” he asks anxiously into the device, and that is the extent of what Eggsy hears before he’s all but flown out of the room, the electric touch of their fingers together sending another jolt straight to his still straining cock. He is so fucking _weak._

_But who the hell is Ella, anyways?_ Eggsy is incredibly confused. _Isn’t he with Julia?_ _And fuck, why do I let myself constantly get into situations like this with men who aren’t even remotely available?_ He quickly makes his way into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. Eggsy sags against the counter, staring at himself in the face. He notes the flush of arousal and shame across his cheekbones and the slightly elevated rate of his breathing and he scowls. He’s not doing this to himself again. He _won’t_. He quickly shucks off David’s army tee and tosses it in the linen basket, vowing to not steal another one. Wearing the man’s clothes is not helping things at all, especially now that he’s gone and pretty much fallen for him. _Fuck, I’m such an idiot._

Eggsy pushes down his boxers over his still hard cock and lets the fabric puddle to the ground, turning to the shower and changing the settings to cold. He quickly steps in and hisses, the cold water finally doing the job of killing the last dregs of his arousal and waking him up fully. 

_Enough is enough,_ Eggsy thinks furiously to himself. He’s going to treat David as a colleague and support him both professionally and personally in any way he can, including not accidentally putting his big fat arse anywhere near him and messing up his life: he’s already been through enough without Eggsy doing any further damage. 

Resolve set, Eggsy quickly cleans himself and steps out of the shower. _Time to get to work._

*

**_MacGregor and MacDuff Kiltmakers, Bath Street, Glasgow. 10 AM._ **

By the time Eggsy and David make it to MacGregor and MacDuff later that morning, they have said less than five words to each other since waking up in the lounge, and Eggsy in particular has had absolutely no luck looking David in the eye—despite his own resolve to treat David like a colleague and David’s own repeated pleading looks and stilted attempts at starting unrelated conversations. 

Eggsy clutches the files tightly in his hand like a lifeline as they step into the shop and raise a hand in greeting to Bothwell, who is once again tending the floor. 

“Morning, lads,” Bothwell greets them from behind the counter. 

“Morning, Bothwell,” David returns, and Eggsy just inclines his head in greeting, not quite trusting his voice or his ability to articulate himself clearly at that moment.

“Hume is waiting for you both in the back office.” 

“Thank you, Bothwell. We’ll be sure to catch up with you on our way out,” Eggsy promises after clearing his throat unnecessarily loudly and attempting to smile at the man, feeling David staring at him like he’s grown a second head at the awkward pause and fumbled greetings. 

“Right-o lads, until then,” Bothwell says, clearly well used to the varied agents passing through, waving them both to the back. 

Eggsy follows David back through the shop to the storage area and the staircase to the offices beyond, doing his very best (and quite frankly failing) not to stare at the strong line of his shoulders in the tweed jacket, down to the cut and taper of his waist, accentuating his compact and strong physique, right down to the way his tailored trousers follow the lines and curves of his strong arse and thighs. _Pull yourself together, mate!_ Eggsy slaps himself mentally for being such a hormone-addled idiot. He is not doing well at all with this acting normal shite. _Fuck, but is it hard._

They let themselves into Hume’s office following a courteous, perfunctory knock, knowing already that the man is waiting for them. Hume is bent over some gadget or another, fiddling with a tiny screwdriver while also scribbling out notes and drawings with the other hand on a tablet. Eggsy, settling himself into an easy stance in front of the desk sees something moving out of the corner of his eye behind Hume. _What the fuck is that?_

“Well met, lads,” Hume says, looking up from his work, eyes twinkling merrily with mirth. “Glad to see you’ve finally deigned to drag yourselves back into the office.”

“Very funny, _Andrew_ ,” David deadpans. “It’s almost like you hadn’t disrupted our work to drop us on top of a fecking mountain.” 

Hume doesn’t rise to the bait, continuing to stare them down with a slightly bemused expression. Eggsy’s eyes widen as what is obviously a cat saunters out from behind the desk towards them and meows a greeting. David, completely unperturbed, crouches down to greet the cat.

“Hello love, how are ye doing today?” he coos, letting the little cat headbutt his hand gently, before straightening up again and arching an eyebrow at Hume. “Bothwell let you sneak Martha in again today, I see.”

Hume, continues as if David hasn’t even spoken. “What can I do for the two of you today? I’m doubting very much this is a social visit to tell me about your little Highlands adventure or for Wallace to socialise with Martha.”

David pointedly ignores the jibe and looks over at Eggsy—who has been shamelessly and intently staring at David’s profile for a while, _damn_ —causing him to look away quickly. Eggsy scrambles to set down the files onto the desk in front of Hume to cover up his awkward actions. David, seemingly unfazed, continues to speak as if nothing strange is happening—which Eggsy is thrilled to note, even if Hume is giving him a knowing look. Fuck, his distraction is going to get them in trouble. _The cat, focus on the bloody cat if you can’t be fucking bothered to think straight. At least she’s a gorgeous distraction,_ Eggsy muses to himself. Hume, it seems, has great taste in companions—of the furry variety, at the very least. 

“We were reviewing files and hospital records from our recon missions from before Finland and Galahad here noticed some interesting links.” David turns to Eggsy, who is hopelessly trying to coax the cat towards him, and gives him an expectant look, clearly wanting him to pick up on the telling. 

“Oh, decided to start doing your job, have you now?” Hume teases, a small smirk planted on his face, before reaching for the file folder. He pulls it towards himself but leaves it closed, and nods. Before David can get a snappy remark in—Eggsy just _feels_ it coming—Hume speaks again. “Go on Galahad, what did you find?”

Eggsy takes a breath and dives into the retelling, explaining the medical records, including the incredibly strange occurrence of all the bodies disappearing before an autopsy can happen, the bites with subsequent neurological symptoms, and the few photos they were actually able to procure.

“Wait, did you say _bites_?” Hume says, leaning forward. “All of the victims that disappeared had bites? You’re positive?”

Eggsy reaches forward and flips open the file folder that Hume has abandoned on the desk in front of him, then points at the relevant documentation in the folders and the photographs. 

Hume shuts his eyes, a hard look on his face. “This can’t be a coincidence.” Eggsy and David shoot him very confused looks. This response is completely out of left field. They had hoped that Hume would have some insight or even an inkling of what all this might mean, but this sounds like he has actual _information_. “The day I picked up word of these mysterious disappearances, there was also a news story of the mysterious death of an SMP…” he trails off, tapping his left temple and turning his back on them for a second. He turns back almost immediately, a satisfied look on his face. “Knew it. Rebecca Fields, it was. Died from some sort of bug bite. There is no way these two aren’t connected in some way.” He picks up the tablet, taps a few times and casts the original news story up on one of the blank walls for them to read. 

He continues to tap at his tablet and stares at it hard, flicking and poking at it until he gets what he’s obviously been looking for. “Fuck, her body has also disappeared. How the _fuck_ did I miss this?” Visibly distracted, Hume reaches down to the ground to gather the meowing cat who is batting at his trouser leg and circling him, clearly concerned about her master. When she is deposited into his lap she curls up, purring in contentment. Clearly, her task is done for the moment, while Hume returns to his frantic tapping and searching. 

Eggsy and David look at each other, alarmed. This whole situation apparently is much deeper and complex than even they were anticipating. 

“What the hell are these people doing with all these bodies?” Hume continues on, obviously talking to himself at this point. “There must be some sort of genetic modification or experimentation going on—why else would they be stealing the bodies of the deceased? And no autopsies on file for any of these either, so why all the secrecy? Who is behind all of this? We still don’t have enough information…” Hume trails off again, tapping furiously at the tablet in his hand, attention completely fixed, leaving Eggsy and David standing awkwardly in front of him. Finally, he looks up, triumphant. 

“Alright boys, you’re off again. Pack your bags: you’re going to Caithness General Hospital. Got word of one victim that went down today, same circumstances. You get a bloody move on before they walk away and leave us with nothing.”

Eggsy and David nod, and turn to leave.

“And boys,” Hume’s voice calls out causing them to turn again. “If at all possible—don’t fuck it up this time, eh? I’m counting on you to put all that hard work you did on the mountain to good use.”

David flips Hume the bird behind his back, and they set off. _Back in the saddle again, indeed._

*

**_Caithness General Hospital, Caithness. Late April. 11:47PM._ **

Since Eggsy suggested they try his failed Swedish hospital stunt once again, David has been on edge. He figured, however, that they’d be safer here, more believable. Plus, they did plan it out, this time. Agreed on a cover story, fetched appropriate garments, picked fake names and referred to each other for a full 24 hoursas Dr Edwards (Eggsy) and Dr Montague (David, who, despite the hours he spent protesting against it, wouldn’t have Eggsy budge from effectively labelling him a Romeo) to _get in character_. Even took an accelerated and frankly stomach-turning course on autopsies and downloaded all relevant materials to their respective visual devices, just in case.

All in all, they’d considered every circumstance, this time. There was virtually no way to fuck this one up. Their supposed high rank from a prominent London hospital should have meant that they’d be able to be left alone with the body while they performed the pre-autopsy agreed-upon analysis on it for their alleged “research”—which really consisted of taking close-up pictures of the bite mark on the back of the corpse’s neck and picking up some DNA samples for Hume to analyse—and fucked off out of there in a couple of hours, tops, safe and undisturbed.

And yet, David thinks to himself as he and Eggsy pick up their pace, speed-walking around yet another corner in the almost deserted hospital, _something_ must have gone wrong: the two gargantuan male nurses who have been tailing them since they got out of the morgue _really_ seem to each have a chip on their respective shoulders.

“They still there?” Eggsy asks through gritted teeth, looking sideways at David.

David brings the tips of his two pinkie fingers together and expands the radius of his heat detector. Immediately, he distinguishes the two brutes, a tad further away than they were last time he checked, but still relentlessly pursuing them.

“Aye,” David sighs. “Still there, still very much… Oh, wait, no: maybe we’re out of the woods,” he immediately corrects himself, as he observes the two gorillas turning in the opposite direction than them. He stops walking for a beat, and Eggsy turns to look at him questioningly. “They’re gone, they took the other corridor!”

Eggsy seems to consider it, then shakes his head. “Bloody unlikely they’d just stop following us like that, if you ask me. They seemed really keen on crushing every bone in our bodies until approximately ten seconds ago: five quid says it’s a shortcut they’ve just taken. Be back on our arses in no time at all.”

 _Fuck, he has a point_ . “I’ll raise you, actually,” David concedes, starting to walk again and hoping to get a sudden burst of inspiration. _The fuck are we going to do? This hospital is a fucking labyrinth, and we’re basically the only people around at this time of night._

After another minute or so of brisk walking, an escape route presents itself to them in the form of a door that says _Staff Room_ , which David tries and finds, mercifully, not locked. “Quick, in here. Need tae get rid of these,” he prompts, tugging at one lapel of his white doctor’s coat.

The staff room is dark and stuffy, but also mercifully empty. As David shrugs off his own uniform and fake glasses, then deactivates the filter camouflaging his blue eyes as chocolate brown, and wiggles a hand through his hair to get rid of the hideous coloured dry shampoo he’d sprayed on the front of his quiff to disguise his silver streak, he observes Eggsy peel off his own ludicrous disguise—curly ginger wig, thick specs and a bushy fake mustache that made him look like an Eighties dad—and finally morph back into his usual stunning self.

Eggsy gives him a wry smile, then he turns to look at the wig he’s still clutching in his hand and whispers a quick _good fucking riddance_ before stuffing it into the rubbish bin next to one of the bunk beds inside the room. “Next time _you’re_ the one wearing the fake mop, Budd.”

“Don’t ye _dare_ ,” David replies, with a half grin, secretly grateful for the slight comic relief Eggsy always seems to bring even in wildly stressful situations. “You know how I feel about the hair.”

At that, Eggsy actually has the nerve to reach a hand up and ruffle it a bit. “There, Budd. Much better, I reckon,” he assesses, smiling smugly.

 _Unbelievable_. “C’mon, Dr Edwards. Time tae get the fuck outta here, I reckon.”

“Ditto, Dr Romeo,” Eggsy replies, opening the door again. “After you, _sir_.”

 _Really not the time or the place for this,_ David thinks, trying not to think about the monosyllable Eggsy’s just uttered and the fact that they seem to have just found themselves alone in a small dark room full of beds and other interesting surfaces Eggsy could be pinned to and fucked against for his cheek.

David shakes it off and pokes his head out of the room first, looking left and right for any signs of the two scrubs-clad behemoths. When he’s sure they’re nowhere to be seen—for the time being, at least—he gives Eggsy the all clear, steps forward into the corridor, and beckons him out as well.

They walk close together in relative silence for what feels like five full minutes, dutifully following the signs that should lead them to the A&E department, which they’ve located upon arrival as being—as A&Es tend to be—right next to the main entrance of the hospital building. 

Ultimately, it’s the unfamiliar buzzing of voices and the loud beeping of machines that tells them they’re getting close. They arrive at yet another crossroads and pause again: through the half-open door on their right, they are able to distinguish EMTs, doctors and nurses practically flying around amongst the beds and tending to late-night emergencies. No people in civvies in there, it seems—ergo, no possible escape route that way. They then turn to their left, glancing at the family members, significant others, and unlucky bystanders all gathered in the waiting room at the front of the A&E department. Behind them, a set of glass doors with a big flashing exit sign hanging above it, and— _fuck_ , here the ogres are again, standing on opposite sides of the door and looking left and right with their chunky, skull-crushing arms crossed in front of them.

David is about to speak out, warn Eggsy of the imminent danger—but Eggsy, it seems, is one step ahead of him: he grabs David’s hand and tugs on it in that familiar way that just says _trust me on this_ , then discreetly changes course, moves towards a couple of empty seats that have them with their back to the thugs and plops into one of them, pulling David down with him.

“Right. _Right_ , okay. This is not a problem,” Eggsy says, not looking at David but at an indefinite spot in front of him. To David, it looks almost like Eggsy’s processing some important information. Like he’s calculating odds and assessing risk scenarios. This inevitably finds David absolutely fascinated by how quick Eggsy is at coming up with brilliant contingency plans on the spot—like he seems to be every single time.

“Tell me what you need, Eggsy,” David prompts, after a brief silence. Eggsy finally straightens and squeezes David’s hand, still in his.

“I need you to reach around the seat so no-one can see you and pinch me really hard, somewhere it’ll hurt,” Eggsy says, simply.

David is baffled. “I’m sorry, what? Why?” _Why would I want to hurt you?_ he adds, mentally—although he feels that’s implied in his urgent tone of voice.

“Listen, David: I just need you to trust me on this, yeah? For this to work I need to be crying, and I can’t really open the floodgates on command, I’m afraid. Hence, do something: _hurt me_. Doesn’t work when I do it on my own.”

“Ye’re going to have to give me a bit more, here, Eggsy,” David insists, still mildly troubled at the idea of having to cause Eggsy any pain. “Need to know what tae work with.”

“We’re going to make a small scene,” Eggsy replies, impatiently. “I’m gonna get up, start ugly crying about something, and, as you try to calm me down, we’ll move a bit closer to the doors, so we’re in those big guys’ field of view.”

“Hiding in plain sight,” David observes. _Clever._

“Precisely. From there, please don’t ask any more questions and just follow my lead, yeah? I’ve been in a situation like this before: if anything goes according to plan, we’ll be able to just walk out right past them without them even bothering to look at us.”

David nods, still a bit reluctant. “If ye’re sure.”

“I’m sure, David,” Eggsy confirms, intense green eyes scrutinising David’s every microexpression. 

David obliges: snakes a hand over the small of Eggsy’s back and onto his elbow, rested against the side of his body, and pinches his ulnar nerve as hard as he can. That inevitably has Eggsy wincing in pain—but it’s a controlled, almost spontaneous sort of reaction that, from the outside, just looks like Eggsy’s bursting into tears. _Fuck me, he’s a natural._

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Eggsy wails, immediately starting on his apparently rehearsed act. “I can’t believe it; my dad can’t be—” 

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Just springs to his feet and turns to look at David, striking a power pose that really is in stark contrast to the river of tears streaming down his face. “I can’t believe you didn’t do anything. He was in the car with you, you could’ve…”

 _Right, time to make something up, I guess_ , David thinks to himself. _I’ve had some training, after all._

“You’ve heard what the doctors said, love. There is a good chance he’s going to wake up soon, he just might lose his legs,” he says, meekly, trying to box Eggsy in his arms: figures he’d get to play _concerned husband_ once again, eh?

“ _Just_?” Eggsy snaps back to David, a bit louder now. “My dad’s a _fireman_ , Richard!” _Guess my name is Richard, then, eh?_ “How the fuck’s he supposed to work without his legs? Oh, you know what, fuck this. I need some air. I need to not be around _you_ for a while,” he says, drying off some tears with the back of his hand and starting to walk away from the seating area and towards the exit.

David grabs his hand at the last minute and gently pulls him back. Eggsy dramatically turns to look at him again. “Please, love, just listen to me,” David pleads, walking up to Eggsy and checking that a few people are indeed looking at them, now—including the thugs by the door, it seems. “It was an accident, and I did everything I could. I know you’re distraught, but it’s really not fair of you to blame me for this. I’m sorry it’s your dad and not me in there. If I could swap places with him right this instant, I absolutely would.” David delivers all this surprisingly easily, all the while making himself think of a few traumatic events from his past and feeling a knot form in his throat. Oh, _he_ can cry on command, alright.

By the end of his little speech, David is so close to Eggsy that he’s actually clutching the sides of his body—Eggsy’s toned arm muscles flexing against David’s gentle, supplicating grip and Eggsy’s hands almost instinctively finding David’s chest, firm press of his palms not quite pushing him away but making a point of sorts, while Eggsy’s eyes fill with tears once again. _He should never be crying like this_ , David presently resolves. _And he shouldn’t be so beautiful when he does, either._

“I… I’m sorry, I’m…” Eggsy interrupts himself by dramatically bursting into tears once again and burying his face into David’s neck as David hugs him tightly, feeling Eggsy’s body shake in his arms.

They stay like that for a wee while, two men hugging and crying on each other’s shoulders in the middle of a semi-crowded waiting room with more than a few people’s eyes on them, until Eggsy partially disentangles himself from David’s embrace and looks at him again.

“Shouldn’t have taken it out on you,” he says, soft and apologetic, sniffling a bit. “You did good, Rich—you saved him.” He then brings a hand up to cup David’s jaw, and David instinctively leans into his touch. 

“I did what anyone would have done for the man they love,” David says, surprised at the ease with which the words come out of his mouth, and half-wondering how on earth—oh, but would you look at Eggsy’s face, right now. Even his _eyes_ are smiling. And he looks like—

“This is _perfect_ , David,” Eggsy whispers, barely moving his lips as he talks and inching a bit closer still. “Now kiss me.”

David is frozen on the spot, but he tries not to give it away too much. He once again finds himself longing for Eggsy to be tethered to the Clansman network and be able to communicate with him telepathically—but today, again, is not the day for it, it seems. He just gawks at Eggsy, then, for the briefest moment, putting on a fake smile for the benefit of the act and trying to _read_ him.

Eggsy looks dead fucking serious; David hesitates a second more, however, because he just can’t do it like this, can’t do it when he knows it’s just for show and it doesn’t mean anything to Eggsy, can’t—

Another bunch of heartbeats later, David feels Eggsy’s fingers tug on the soft wool of his cardigan and pull him in, watery eyes once more beseeching trust. David finally nods and just goes with it.

When they come together in a rather dramatic and desperate kiss— _for show, for show, this is just for show_ —David finds himself sighing as he realises that Eggsy’s lips are as soft and warm as he’d always imagined they would be. He can taste mints on Eggsy’s breath, the Polos he kept popping out at semi-regular intervals all night long, sucking on them nervously as they went about their dangerous infiltration operation; he can also taste the salty tears _he_ provoked—quite necessarily, of course but that he still irrationally wants to kick himself for, somehow; he can feel Eggsy practically folding into him, stepping in even closer and moulding their bodies together, and it’s all _wonderful_. So wonderful, in fact, that it makes David want more.

He skids his left hand upwards, trailing over the curve of Eggsy’s shoulders and the side of his neck until he’s effectively cupping the back of his head and just almost imperceptibly pressing Eggsy more into the kiss, into him; he doesn’t dare go further, however. Doesn’t want to force Eggsy into anything more than a chaste-yet-rather-full-on kiss if Eggsy doesn’t feel like—

David senses the tip of Eggsy’s tongue tease at the seam of their lips, and for the briefest moment he all but loses track of time and space as the kiss automatically deepens, David’s face tilting to one side to accommodate Eggsy’s eager, roaming tongue, nose digging into Eggsy’s cheek and the underside of his glasses—lost, so lost, _fuck, no, no, oh, but it feels so right, can’t possibly stop now._

Neither of them does, for a few seconds that last a lifetime, during which David’s senses are overwhelmed by Eggsy’s whole being—discreetly wandering hands, the small noises he makes, his hard breathing, his lips, his teeth, everything is way too perfect to give it up. Eventually, however, Eggsy does delicately pull away: he looks flushed and puffy-eyed, but triumphant.

“Bet they’re not looking at us _now_ , are they?” he murmurs, still impossibly close, still boxed inside David’s arms.

David quickly glances sideways, and discovers that Eggsy’s absolutely right: the goons are looking away from them, in opposite directions, with mild but unmistakeable disgust painted on their ugly faces. David is therefore forced to raise an eyebrow and nod, while forcing himself not to glance down at Eggsy _too_ adoringly.

Eggsy’s smile widens, kiss-swollen lips parting to reveal pearly white teeth, somehow warming David up from the inside. “Come along, then, my darling. I still do terribly need some fresh air,” he announces, louder now, clearly intending anyone listening to overhear.

They start walking with purpose towards the door, David’s arm draped over Eggsy’s shoulders and Eggsy leaning into David, as if they really were just an ordinary couple strolling out of a busy room full of distress in search for the comfort of some crisp night air. During the half-second it takes for the automatic doors to slide open David finds he really, _really_ wants to turn and look at the big man on his right and flip him off—but he doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. However, he does clutch Eggsy a tad closer and presses a small kiss to his temple, ensuring it makes a loud enough smooching noise that the two goliaths will most definitely hear it, then continues to lead Eggsy out of the hospital as if nothing had happened.

Despite the serotonin high and the residual butterflies in his stomach, David is forced to groan in annoyance right after taking his first step outside the hospital. The weather is god-awful, and he has the nagging feeling that he won’t be able to call the chopper to get them back to Glasgow—or, at the very least, Glenglassaugh. His suspicion is confirmed just a few minutes later, when he finally manages to get a hold of Randolph.

“Been ready for you boys for a while, what happened?” he asks David telepathically. David can tell Eggsy’s getting suspicious about this whole _contact lenses_ thing— _how is it possible that you can actually hear them, too?_ —but daren’t say anything about it. It’s not his place, after all: all he can do for now is squeeze Eggsy’s hand in reassurance, raise the index finger of his other hand and mouth “won’t be a minute”.

“Sorry, Randy, bit of a setback there. We’re here now, though: just coming up on Bridge Street. You still alright picking us up at the extraction point?”

“Um, yeah, David, about that…” Randolph seems to falter a bit. _Fuck, we’re stranded here for the night, aren’t we?_ “Weather forecast says heavy rain and strong wind until 6AM tomorrow. Sorry, chief—can’t risk it. I will be picking ye up bright and early tomorrow morning, though, eh?” he adds, trying to sound chipper.

_Fucking great. Not even sure if there is a hotel around here._

Wick, Caithness turns to have not one but _two_ hotels—one of them fully booked because of some daft fishermen’s gathering, the other one with just one room available, which they end up booking straight away, over the phone. 

When they finally get to the Norseman Hotel, absolutely drenched and somehow still holding hands, Eggsy and David are informed that the room has twin beds, but that they can rather comfortably be joined together, if need be. The night manager seems to have picked up on some sort of _vibe_ — _but don’t worry, ma’am, he’s really not interested. He’s got way bigger fish to fry._ (David’s seen pictures of Arthur in Hume’s files. The man just oozes confidence and sex appeal and—)

“David?” Eggsy asks, in a tone indicating that possibly it’s not the first time he’s called out for him.

David locks the room door and turns to face Eggsy. “Yes?”

“I asked you a question, hotshot.”

When David proceeds to stare blankly at him for a good five seconds, Eggsy finally provides. “D’you want the bed by the window?”

“Oh,” David replies, “no, thanks, you can have it. Prefer tae be closer to the door—just in case, y’know.”

“Just in case those gorillas followed the hopeless homos smooching in the middle of the A&E waiting room all the way back to their hotel, y’mean? Yeah, Budd, you’re right: they _really_ seemed keen on spending some more time with us,” Eggsy observes, sarcastically, as he unceremoniously pulls his wet shirt over his head and rests it on the back of the chair in front of him.

David smiles bashfully, unsure what to say for a few seconds: his throat is suddenly very dry. 

Then, it comes to him. “Genius idea, that, by the way,” he manages, trying not to sound too eager.

Eggsy quirks an eyebrow at him and half-circles him while he unbuckles his belt and moves in the direction of the small en-suite. “Why, Budd, thank you. Well done yourself: it takes two, eh?”

Before David can throw caution to the wind and press this gorgeous, deliberately shirtless man that has been driving him insane for months against the closest vertical surface and have his wicked way with him, David remembers himself. “Then why exactly are you assuming _you’re_ the one who gets to shower first, eh?” he asks, with a smirk, smooth as he can muster.

Eggsy just chuckles as he unzips his trousers and pushes them down his thighs, waiting for them to pool at his ankles before stepping out of them. “Cute of you to assume that there is any kind of meritocracy in this, David. Nah, bruv: you’re just _slow_.”

Obliterated by the sight of, well, _all that_ , David frantically looks amongst his personal arsenal of witty remarks—and miserably fails to find an appropriate one. He just shrugs, then, and wishes Eggsy a good shower.

“Don’t miss me too much while I’m gone,” Eggsy replies, shutting the door behind him. _I’ll try_ , David daftly thinks to himself. 

When it’s finally his turn in the shower, he spends a good twenty minutes with his back against the cool porcelain tiles and both hands around himself, pitifully muffling guttural moans and small whines by biting down hard on his lower lip as he comes. 

By the time he gets out of the bathroom, towelling his hair and dripping all over the carpet, David notices that Eggsy’s already passed out on the bed next to the window—big light on, and all. He elects to do the same, then: tucks himself under the covers, closes his eyes, and tries shutting off his brain. He ends up replaying that kiss in his head a couple of hundred times, until exhaustion finally takes him.

Dawn ultimately ambushes David after what feels like just two meagre hours of sleep, that he seems to have spent lost in one of his usual very vivid dreams—those that leave him completely exhausted and give him absolutely no motivation to face the world for the day. This time, he was sitting on a chair, gagged and restrained, and he was being forced to watch Eggsy and Arthur going at it.

 _Bloody hell_ , he thinks, rubbing his eyes and slightly facepalming himself in the process. He hears Eggsy stir, then—small, sleepy noises that he oh so wishes he could turn into something else—and his nerve endings all but set on fire.

_I’m so royally fucked._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weeeell. Wasn't that a whole emotional journey, now, people?
> 
> And hey, what do you know, it only took, what, 75k words to get them to actually kiss? From here, the only way is up. (For real, though, dudes, we'd warned you: this is a slow burn. We're taking it _very_ seriously, indeed. We hope you're along for the ride.)
> 
> As usual, we're very excited to know what you thought of our wee chapter, so if you feel inclined to leave us a comment, just know it'll most definitely make our day.
> 
> See you next week for an even more peculiar one, which we had a blast writing.
> 
> Love,
> 
> M and C xx


	12. IX. Praefectus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do I have to do _everything_ around here?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goooooood morning, lovely folks. It's Tuesday again, and it's my (C) birthday, and look at me: posting to the Archive two years in a row, and wanting to do it for the next 100 years. *heart eyes emoji*
> 
> M and I hope you're all doing well. Today we bring you a bit of a different chapter. We leave the boys to their own dumb devices to bring you a full Hume/Andrew POV chapter! We were pretty smug about having this idea, when it came to us, and we really think this helps set the scene for all the craziness that is about to unfold.
> 
> We have a few new characters being introduced this week, and of course we've cast them all:  
> \- **Oba Barasa** , Andrew's new sweetheart, beautiful, glamorous Kenyan-American actress (played by Lupita Nyong'o)  
> \- **Agent Wishart** , "street" name Daniel McCullough, active and "old guard" Clansman agent (played by Peter Capaldi)  
> \- **Agent Comyn** , "street" name Arthur Ferguson, a low-key genius/madman, currently recovering from a harsh past mission (played by David Tennant)  
> \- **Agent Fraser** , "street" name Jamie McLean, infallible heartthrob, hopeless romantic, basically Jamie Fraser from _Outlander_ if he was a spy, duh ( _obviously_ played by Sam Heughan)  
>   
> As per usual, here is **[our weekly playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/75QBeLtQU4ocSA0hrYWp98?si=_AHj66jpThmj_jWkx0tFNg)** , which we hope will help you get in the right mood for this small journey inside our Andrew's mind.
> 
> Enjoy!

_**IX. Praefectus** _

**_MacGregor and MacDuff Kiltmakers, Bath Street, Glasgow. Late April. Friday. 5:30 PM._ **

Andrew swipes away the last of the hologram screens hovering on his desk, and finally breathes out in utter relief. _Fuck me_ , he thinks to himself. One would be inclined to think that Wishart, an experienced agent in his late fifties that has been active for longer than Andrew’s been alive, wouldn’t be needing _this_ much assistance—especially on a rather straightforward infiltration mission. Problem is, Wishart is also an extremely meticulous man, and this always, _always_ happens: even for the simplest attempt to pick a lock, Andrew has to spend hours and hours on the phone with him, going into every single detail and listening to the man worrying about minutiae that are usually all rather inconsequential in the grand scheme of the mission. 

But it’s over now, thank God. All he has to think about is wearing some nice clothes and generally sprucing himself up for the lovely evening he’s got planned with—

Annoyingly, impossibly, _tragically_ , the tip of his index finger starts buzzing and his tablet lights up once again. 

_Oh, fuck no. Not this fastidious old sod again. Had enough of him for one day._ He turns away from the desk and takes a brief stroll towards his office window, rubbing his face with both hands. _Can today be fucking over, already?_

But he’s technically still at work, after all, and his sense of duty ends up trumping every other feeling he might have towards Wishart. After all, he knows how good a job the man always does, so he decides to turn back towards the desk and take the call. When he does, the face appearing in front of him is the one of a rather imposing, severe-looking Scottish man… just not the one he was anticipating.

“Merlin!” Andrew exclaims, surprised. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks, perfectly aware that the tone of his voice is clearly implying _it’s Friday night: make it quick_ rather loudly—but also, really, not giving much of a toss.

“Just thought I’d ring ye to let ye know the cat seems to have dragged in one of yours, around ten minutes ago,” Merlin says, in a non-committal tone. Andrew knows he really means to add _this has been happening a touch too often, lately, Hume_ , but Merlin is apparently surfing on the same polite, Friday-night wave, and mercifully cuts himself short. “We’ve given Agent Fraser a room at HQ and a change of clothes, and we will be shipping him off to ye as soon as he’s well rested and fit to travel. He was looking rather battered and a tad shaken when he burst into Savile Row, earlier—nearly gave Tom at the shop a heart attack.”

 _Ah, Fraser, finally,_ Andrew thinks. _Had been waiting to hear back from him._

“Very gracious of you, Merlin,” he replies, courteously. “I hope he won’t be too burdensome a guest, while he’s with you, there.”

“Don’ mention it, Hume. Only standard protocol, really, eh? Agent Fraser is a good lad, and he also appears to be a favourite amongst the Kingsman female staff,” he adds, raising an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine anyone complaining about him staying at the Mansion for a wee while.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised to hear he’s broken a few hearts down there, too. He’s an insufferably handsome bastard. He’s also good at his job, luckily.”

Merlin smirks. “Curious. We have one like that too,” he observes, allusively. “How goes our Galahad, by the way? Please tell me he’s behaving.”

“He’s been _irreproachable_ , lately,” Andrew says, trying not to think about the rather unorthodox escape method Galahad came up with at that hospital up in Wick only the other day. “He and Wallace really seem to have, um, hit it off since that elaborate little stunt we pulled on them.”

“Most enjoyable couple of days I’ve had on the job in _years_. Thanks for that, Hume. Seriously,” Merlin replies, with a sly smile.

Andrew chuckles. “Ditto, my dear fellow. I shall keep you posted on—oh, what the _fuck_ is with everyone tonight? Doesn’t anyone know it’s Friday?” he asks, unfortunately out loud, successfully putting a mock-annoyed look on Merlin’s face, as he notices another call alert coming through, this time from David’s phone. He huffs, quite exasperated, and he gets a compassionate look from his colleague. “I’m going to have to call you back, Merlin. Please, do let me know if Fraser ends up causing any trouble.”

“Not to worry. Have a good night, Hume.”

“And you, old boy,” Andrew replies, winking at Merlin and closing the call. He nods at his tablet, then: anything to stop the blasted thing from beeping. “Yes, David, what is it?”

David materialises in front of him wearing a hoodie—and, Jesus, judging by the considerable amount of chest hair that peeks through, _nothing underneath_ —and a pair of workout shorts that are a tad too short for Andrew’s liking. “And a good evening to you too, boss.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Andrew waves him off, crossing his arms over his chest. “Hello David, nice to see you. How can I help you this fine _Friday_ evening?” _Need me to do your laundry so you can finally put on some actual clothes, maybe? I don’t mind: I do everything else around here, anyways._

“Alright, Christ, sorry, didnae mean to disrupt yer plans. Be quick, I promise,” David replies, apologetic, but with a wicked look in his eyes.

“Go ahead, Wallace, I’m all ears.”

“It’s actually Eggsy here, who—” _Eggsy, who by the way really should be looped into the network, Andrew, fuck’s sake, can we do something about it?_ , David asks him telepathically, visibly scrolling through some settings. He seemingly finds what he’s been looking for right after, because Eggsy suddenly pops up next to him and waves to Andrew. “—here we go. I was saying, Eggsy just went to Waitrose and found out something possibly groundbreaking.”

“Evening, Hume. So, real quick: I think we might ‘ave a problem, guv.”

“What else is new,” Andrew says, resigned. _I am a sort of glorified nanny for a bunch of manchildren, after all, am I not?_ “As long as the dead aren’t rising, at least—I think we can handle it. C’mon, spit it out, Galahad.”

Eggsy’s expression goes very rigid, for a second. He glances sideways at David, who nods at him as if to say, _c’mon, it’s okay, you’re not crazy._ The energy between these two, it’s just—

“Um. Yeah. I think _that_ might actually be the stuff we’re dealing with. _Dead people walking_ ,” he specifies, sounding like he doesn’t believe his own words. “I was queueing for the self-service tills at Waitrose, right—getting this one his ridiculous oat milk,” he says, pointing at David on his side with his thumb stuck out, “—and this bloke just turns to me and compliments me on my choice, says it’s the most sustainable dairy substitute and that I should be really proud of meself, helping the planet heal an’ all that. Then he turned his back on me and I spotted the mark on him: same one we’ve been tracking.”

Andrew scratches his chin pensively while he observes David play with the zip of his hoodie. Suddenly wishes he’d brought Martha in today—she always helps him focus.

“Interesting. And you’re sure about this?”

“Positive. Even took some pics for ya, hold on,” Eggsy promptly says, tapping the side of his glasses and swiping forward: a few shots appear in the space between them. “See that? Just there, at the base of his skull. Plain as fuckin’ day.”

 _Fuck me_ , Andrew thinks, for what feels like the millionth time today. _Maybe the manchildren are onto something, for once._

“Great work spotting this, Galahad,” Andrew says, eyes flickering between Eggsy and David, and— _Christ, I knew it. David, you hopeless moron, you can’t possibly be proving me right and falling for this one too, eh?_

“Just doing my job, boss. And don’t you worry: might not be Grimes and Dixon, sure, but if there’s some zombie arses to be kicked, Wallace and I are your men,” Eggsy delivers, with a confident wink.

David just gawks at Eggsy, visibly confused. Eggsy shakes his head; Andrew suspects this is not the first time something like this has happened. He’s been on enough pub nights with the whole gang to know that David and pop culture are two things that do not exactly go together.

“Never liked _The Walking Dead_ ,” Andrew comments. Eggsy’s expression, as he looks back and forth from David to Andrew, is one that says _you guys are just the worst_. “But I will most definitely be looking into this and keep you posted. And you let me know if you notice anything else, eh?”

“Will do, Hume,” Eggsy replies, nodding.

“You boys have yourself a good night, then. Unless there’s anything else?” Andrew still asks, despite himself.

“Nothing, chief,” David mercifully replies, mock-saluting him. “We’ll let ye go. Enjoy yer hot date,” he adds, with a smirk.

“Mind your own business, Agent. And for the love of God—do consider putting some actual clothes on, every once in a while.”

Eggsy’s eyes widen in evident shock and surprise, which morphs into him bringing a hand to his chest and mouthing a silent ‘oh my god’ in David’s direction. David raises his eyebrows sassily, purses his lips, utters a rushed _goodbye_ and disconnects the call.

Andrew chuckles as he writes himself a note to research the, ugh, _zombies_ , _what in the name of fuck_ , then proceeds to disconnect every bit of electronics around him—including the neural network, but minus his personal phone, which he uses to shoot a quick text to his, as David so elegantly put it, _hot date_.

_Can’t wait to see you!_

*

**_The Flying Duck restaurant, Renfield Street, Glasgow. 7 PM._ **

After his first date with Oba, Andrew swore to himself he wouldn’t do the obsessive thing he always tends to do after meeting someone he likes: try to find out absolutely everything about them from what they thought appropriate to put out on the Internet, then tailor the conversation to said interests and life experiences to try and impress them. (That, plus the fact that it only took typing her name into any search engine to pull up a full, detailed bio that he most certainly didn’t get into, but that very quickly informed him of her dazzling acting career.) He always, _always_ ends up making an utter fool of himself sooner or later, doing that; he really likes this woman, and really, _really_ doesn’t want to fuck it up, so the only thing about her he let himself actually look into is the origin of her name. 

‘Oba’ turned out to mean _river goddess_ , and my oh my is she the perfect embodiment of that, tonight: ebony skin, short hair pulled up in an updo, gold hair band keeping it out of her face, and a gorgeous, flowy baby blue dress, swishing all around her as she steps out of the cab that just pulled up in front of the restaurant. She _is_ a goddess, alright. Which, in turn, begs the obvious question: _what the fuck is she doing out with a guy like me?_

“Andrew!” she chirps, waving at him from a few yards away. Andrew can’t help a giant smile from creeping up on his face as he walks towards her.

“Evening,” Andrew greets her, approaching to kiss her on both cheeks and—oh, of course she also smells amazing. Some sort of rich, spicy vanilla, sweet but also dangerous. “You look absolutely stunning tonight, my dear.”

“Oh, _stop_ it, you,” she waves him off with a perfectly manicured hand. “This dress is at least five years old.”

The blue chiffon hugs her figure in all the right places, and it’s very difficult for Andrew to form coherent thoughts while he’s uttering his name to the person who’s supposed to show them to their table, to listen to the nice waiter asking him if he’d like to see the wine list, and, when he gets it, to actually _read_ said wine list. Thankfully, the algorithm he’s just developed for the neural network (and that he’s been beta-testing for a couple of weeks) is working like a fucking charm, and effectively doing all the work for him: before he knows it, his and Oba’s meal choices have been dissected and paired with the best wine choices for each course—dessert included—and he’s delivering the whole thing to the waiter sounding like he’s some kind of certified sommelier.

When the man gives them both a courteous nod and fades into the busy background of the restaurant, Andrew notices Oba looking at him, smiling.

“You know, Andrew, I was _so_ happy when you suggested this restaurant,” she says, remarkably pleased. “You hadn’t told me you were on a plant-based diet too!”

Andrew is, um, _not_ : he picked a vegan restaurant simply because he doesn’t get out enough to know what is good anymore and this was on top of Julia’s list of recommendations for Central Glasgow. But dammit, Oba looks so, so impressed right now—what harm is a little white lie going to do?

“Yeah I’ve… um, yeah, been trying it out for a while now. Feel so much better.” A quick scan through the net tells him that giving up dairy is supposed to be good for one’s skin, so he quips out something about that, succeeding at making the river goddess smile even more broadly.

“Cute, smart and mindful of sustainability even in your personal life. Where have you been hiding all this time, Andrew?”

Andrew blushes. _Holed up at a fake kiltmakers shop trying to save the world, my dear_.

He’s about to blurt something possibly cheesy and definitely uncool out about how he’s been waiting for the right person to come along, but Oba’s quicker than him: she launches into a rather pedantic monologue about veganism and saving the animals, climate change and the need for ESG issues to be addressed, and for politicians to ‘step it the hell up’. 

“Oh, agreed,” Andrew replies, not quite sure what else to say. He’s been on two dates with this girl and he’s never heard her be this vocal about sustainability before. Hells, their second night out was occupied almost entirely by Oba showing him pictures from all her trips—she definitely seemed to have nothing against airline travel, then.

Thankfully, Andrew’s train of thought is cut off by the waiter coming back with a platter of vegan cheese, crackers, and two glasses of Prosecco. After that welcome interruption, the conversation somehow mercifully ends up shifting towards a topic that Andrew has secretly been dying to talk about.

“So, tell me: how did you get into tap dancing?” Oba asks, delicately depositing a small dollop of compote onto a cracker and setting a piece of what Andrew really wishes was real cheese on top of it.

“Ah, that’s really a tale as old as time. My sister first got me into ballet dancing when I was six—but I was too competitive for it, apparently?” he says, with a smirk, trying not to look too smug. “Moved on to tapping a couple of years later, and I’ve loved it ever since.”

“How come you were taking a class, then?” she replies, smiling confusedly while she recalls the first time they met.

“Oh, I was there as a favour to Matt, the bloke who taught you that night,” Andrew replies. “Well, he was scratching my back too, to be fair: I’ve been looking for a new partner for competitions,” he adds, with what he hopes is a charming smile against the rim of his glass, before taking a sip of bubbly.

“Awww, I had no idea!” Oba replies, sounding disappointed. “I’m sorry that didn’t end up working for me. I’m possibly the least coordinated person on the planet,” she says, chuckling. “I was lucky you caught me when I tripped over my own feet, really. Such a prince charming move, by the way.”

“Nonsense,” Andrew waves her off lightly, feeling himself go a bit red in the face. “I’m sure you just need some practice. Plus, group classes never cut it for me: I only started making actual progress when I moved onto private lessons. I learnt everything I know from one wonderful teacher: the patience of a saint, she had,” Andrew recalls fondly, thinking he really should write to Ms. Wilkinson sooner rather than later. “She almost, almost convinced me to make a career out of it.” _Rambling, Andrew. Full-on rambling, mate._

“And how did you end up a tailor, then?” she asks, sounding genuinely interested.

“ _Kiltmaker_ ,” he can’t help but correct her, as politely as he can muster. _Leave the suits to those uptight London toffs, thank you very much._ “Which now that I say it out loud does sound queer, me being English and all. We moved here when I was fourteen, my, um…” _mum and dad and sister were killed, and two of Clansman’s old guard sort of adopted me_ , “parents both got jobs in Glasgow. I liked it so much, I decided to stay even after I moved out of their place.”

“Can’t really say I blame you: I _love_ this city. So exciting, so chaotic, so…”

“...Scottish?” Andrew finishes for her, taking a wild guess based on her light American accent and the overall irresistible exotic energy about her. _Have yet to meet one foreigner who hasn’t fallen in love with Scotland._

“Oh my God, yes, exactly! There’s just something unique about this place, isn’t there?”

A long-winded conversation about all the places she should definitely visit while she’s here ensues, during which the subject of trains also comes up—how they’re Oba’s preferred way of travelling these days, and how much better it would be for the environment if everyone ditched their ridiculous cars and took public transport instead—which, inevitably, has them back into the slightly uncomfortable realms of an unnecessarily politicised discussion about climate change and how frustrated Oba seems to be with the lack of engagement from ‘the establishment’.

After a while, Andrew realises that he has unfortunately spaced out for a good portion of Oba’s— _very_ lengthy—dissertation regarding the pitfalls of the lack of cohesive action from the masses and how she plans to use her platform to promote a veritable call to action. It’s not that he’s not aware there is indeed a problem. It’s not even like he’s an uninterested, negationist kind of guy. It’s just, perhaps, that he’d have liked conversation during his, ah, what the hell, David’s right, _hot date_ , to go into a different direction than—

“It’s been a real challenge making a change in my international travel habits, especially with my career. But I heard the most amazing presentation at the Duchess of Somerset’s last climate conference in Stockholm, about eco fuel sources? So it shouldn’t be too long now.”

Andrew nods along, doing his best to look enthralled by the conversation. _It’s weird, though_ , he can’t help but think. He can’t recall it being like this the last time they spent time together. On the other hand, he supposes he should really be grateful that Oba is carrying the conversation as he can’t reasonably start opening up about his job, now can he? 

“Princess Tilde was there, you know. It was quite the event. I wonder if she’ll be at the next event in Rome?” Oba continues, looking a bit star struck. “The Duchess of Somerset is such a _visionary_ , and she is bringing in so many amazing high-profile people, and the best minds in the field! This is the advent of change for the climate struggle Andrew, I swear it!”

Suddenly, she interrupts herself. She smiles. “I could really use a refill on our water, though,” she says, clearing her throat. “So much talking! Andrew, darling, do you see our—oh, there they are!” She waves her hand gently at the server to get their attention, her entire body turned in her seat, leaving her back to Andrew for the first time that evening.

Andrew, who has been absently sorting through his messages on the network for the last five minutes before the abrupt change in conversation, is now thoroughly distracted. He does his best not to gasp, but he can’t help but stare: his eyes are fixed in shocked horror at the raised pink welt at the back of Oba’s neck. 

_The bite. The fucking bite. What the actual fuck._

*

**_~~Andrew's house~~ MacGregor and MacDuff Kiltmakers, Bath Street, Glasgow. Andrew's office.The following Sunday, late afternoon. _ **

Andrew never expects that he will have a stereotypical boring weekend at home—he’s been in the espionage business for over a decade, after all, he’s perfectly aware there are no days off on this fucking job. Nonetheless, he has taken the initiative and penciled in a couple of big blue blocks in his calendar with the title “leave me the fuck alone, it’s the weekend” in capital letters, for everyone in the Clansman network to see. This, mostly, in order to catch up on chores and take care of all the small tasks he has let woefully lapse in his personal life, due to the ever eclipsing catastrophes that raineth down from on high as a result of his job cleaning up after pyromaniac, accident-prone toddlers. 

On cue, this particular weekend has apparently devolved from a dreamily anticipated humdrum, domestic, chore-filled Saturday, and a potentially restful and (hopefully, dear God) _quiet_ Sunday tidying things up in his home office, checking into the office remotely, to an all-out turf war between his R&D and Mission Operations teams. It seems that a slight mishap with a prototype has caused ‘a wee fire’ which in truth turned out to be a small enough fire, but with enough choking black smoke that was— _inadvertently_ , or so he’s told—sent to the command centre and caused all of the staff to evacuate for several hours, subsequently derailing several key missions at the same time. In retaliation, the handlers all banded together and enlisted the assistance of the kitchen staff to make the R&D minions’ lives a complete misery for twelve hours. 

_Children, I’m working with children_ , Andrew thinks wryly to himself. _This is why I can’t ever have a nice weekend off—or anything nice at all, more like._ He thinks forlornly of all the cancelled dinners and personal effects he’s had literally blown to smithereens in the name of Clansman over the years. Quite frankly, he’s _lucky_ that he has even been able to get away from the office for long enough to have dinner with Oba. Relationships are such a tricky thing to manage, when one is the Clansman quartermaster.

On top of all of that, it turns out that Agent Comyn, who was laid up in the medical wing in an induced coma for the past two months, has now been conscious for all of two days... and he has since attempted to escape a total of six times. Except, of course, being extremely weak on his pins after a two month enforced nap meant he was unable to get very far each time, the giant doofus. Thankfully, the medical staff—wise to his antics after nearly a decade of dealing with his absurd phobia of doctors—have been keeping a close eye on him: knowing that he is a terrible patient is half the reason he was in an induced coma for so long, after all. And yet the continuous calls of complaint from the CMO still have successfully managed to cause Andrew more headaches than he could ever wish for over the last two days. 

Now, with more than half the week gone, and despite his best efforts to get himself back on track and complete his regular administrative responsibilities (in addition to everything else, of course), the universe, it appears, is still in disagreement. In the last 24 hours, Andrew has been run off his feet doing damage control with Wishart’s mission, which had unexpectedly and violently gone off the rails, subsequently sending the agent into a tailspin as all of his contingency plans for contingency plans had gone by the wayside and he had been forced to think on his feet. _Certainly not his forte_ , Andrew thinks to himself tiredly, pressing his palms to his eyes, attempting to relieve the pressure of yet another tension headache. 

He feels a nudge against his left calf and opens his eyes, looking down at the little cat by his feet with a smile. “Yes, Martha. I know, love, you’re right. I certainly do deserve a vacation after all the shit I’ve been through this past week,” he says, scooping her up and holding her close to his chest for a moment, before letting her pad away across his desk to flop directly on top of his tablet, making her opinions on the subject of his overworking himself abundantly clear. 

Andrew smiles tiredly and shakes his head at his cat’s antics before turning back to the large screen on his left. This one displays another mission update from Moray in Thailand: she appears to be making progress—although not as much as they would have anticipated by this point, which is mainly due to a rather unfortunate situation with an established contact there. That particular event has since prompted a shockwave of setbacks and has almost necessitated Moray’s premature extraction. When that came up, a couple of days ago, Andrew found himself incredibly grateful that it was her in Bangkok and not anyone else, because she has managed to weather the upset like the almost ridiculously competent goddess-amongst-men she is and even keep the mission more or less on track, all with minimal help required from HQ. Still, that doesn’t mean that it wasn’t a hellish couple of days, and Andrew will happily attribute any new wrinkles to the whole thing. He’s actually quite surprised that he’s not as bald as an egg like Merlin by this point, particularly if his counterpart’s stress level is anything like his own (and, by all means, it looks like it might well be).

Closing out of Moray’s concise mission update a short while later, Andrew is finally in a place where he’s able to focus on the trail of evidence that Wallace and Galahad passed along to him, starting with the curiosity with the survivors of the bug bites. Just as Andrew is trying to gently extricate his tablet from underneath Martha and attempt to hack into some hospital and clinic records for the millionth time, he is interrupted by a knock at his door. 

“Come in!” he calls out, still wordlessly negotiating with his cat, trying to get her to move but at the same time, completely unwilling to disturb her extremely peaceful-looking slumber.

He hears the door, but he doesn’t break the staring contest that he has now engaged in with Martha, as to break eye contact now would be conceding defeat. _Jesus, I really need some fucking sleep,_ he thinks to himself, all while glaring at his cat, hoping beyond hope that she will move her adorable fluffy butt off his tablet.

“Tut tut, sweetling,” a female voice breaks his concentration, causing him to look up in surprise. “You know Robert wouldn’t be pleased if he knew ye have Martha in the office today, Andrew, my lamb. And on a Sunday, of all days! Shouldn’t ye be at home?”

“Oh, Elizabeth!” Andrew exclaims. He feels his cheeks flush up a tad as he looks up to meet a pair of striking blue eyes. Robert’s wife looks down at him kindly, lovingly. He smiles at her. “Yeah, I should. I definitely bloody should. And about Martha—yeah, I apologise. It’s been a week and I hate leaving her all cooped up alone for days at a time.”

Elizabeth simply arches an elegant brow at him. “And the rest of the time? I know Bothwell is far too lenient with ye and she’s in here more often than not.” Found out, Andrew smirks and shrugs, hoping a halo will miraculously pop up out of nowhere and settle itself on his head. 

Truth is, he _loves_ Robert’s wife. She is such a strong-willed woman who won’t take any bullshit from anyone—but simultaneously, somehow, also comes across as the sweetest, most doting adoptive mum on the planet. In fact, he’d bet almost anything he owns that she came in not to bust his arse about him or his cat being in the office on a Sunday, but to feed him up and cluck over the (quite frankly) _massive_ bags under his eyes. 

In response to his cheeky, unrepentant boyish act, Elizabeth fixes him with a mock-glare for a few seconds, before breaking and grinning back at him, then leaning forward to buss him on the cheeks. After pulling away, she looks him over and tuts again, smoothing over wrinkles with her thumbs and examining his face with concern.

“When was the last time you slept in a bed, young man?” 

Andrew just barely hides another triumphant smirk, covering it quickly with a mock chastised expression. “Probably… Friday?” he replies, uncertainly. 

“And the last full meal ye ate?” she asks, clearly already knowing the answer is ‘far too long ago’ for her taste. 

Andrew actually has to wrack his brain to come up with an answer to that question. Unquestionably, that was much more recently than the last time he slept in an actual bed—but still probably not recently enough for both his own stomach and Elizabeth’s taste.

“Maybe yesterday? Day before?” he replies. “It was dinner!” he rushes to assure her, in response to the appalled look on her face. 

She clicks her tongue, then reaches for the tin she discarded on the corner of the desk when she came in. “Seems ye actually need these more than I thought,” she says pushing the tin towards him. Andrew’s eyes light up. Elizabeth’s shortbread is _to die for_. “But ye best promise me now that ye’ll eat a meal. _Today,_ ” she stresses. 

Meanwhile, Andrew already has the tin open and a biscuit shoved into his mouth, chewing furiously while he nods. When he’s being treated to the most delicious homemade shortbread in the world, he’s usually willing to agree to just about anything. 

Elizabeth nods perfunctorily before stepping away. “If I hear that ye haven’t, the next visit to this office will be from Robert, and ye’d better believe I will be telling him that I found Martha in here with you,” she warns, eyes steely with conviction. 

“Yes ma’am. I promise I will eat a meal and sleep in a bed. Tonight, at the very latest,” he replies looking her in the eye, before reconsidering his promise. “Well, the meal I can absolutely promise. The bed will be contingent on the catastrophes caused by our troupeau of toddlers.” 

Elizabeth laughs. “I understand completely, my dove. Just try—that’s all I ask.”

“Thank you so much for the biscuits, and the visit, Liz. You’ve absolutely made my day,” Andrew says, earnestly. 

“It was my pleasure, love,” she says, as she takes her leave. “I’ll send Mar in shortly to escort you for a meal, just tae be sure!” she calls over her shoulder with a wave.

Andrew lets his head fall into his arms on the desk. Save him from all the interfering women in his life. 

Following Elizabeth’s visit and reinvigorated by her delicious buttery biscuits, Andrew is finally able to hack into a couple of hospital’s systems and pull some records from there. It’s a hard and tedious job—he has to do a lot of old-fashioned screen-grabbing and copy-pasting on some occasions, but he manages to get all he was looking for. _Fuck yeah_ , he thinks, catching a breath and rubbing a small knot in the back of his neck. _Still got it_.

He then settles in to start looking through the various forums and blogs that he makes a habit to monitor: hate groups, political activists, doomsday preppers—or anyone else who may potentially turn into or feed into a potential threat. Over the past several weeks, he has noticed odd divergences in many of these groups. Nothing major, apparently, or not for now at least: mainly small shifts in priorities and reorganisations, really. Notably, many of them seem to be much more focused on environmental issues and, while they still hold to their normal convictions in the broader sense, there is a great deal more chatter and support for green initiatives. 

Unsure if this is just a natural shift in priorities or an actual, crucial change, Andrew makes a small annotation in the margin of a document, as once again he is interrupted by a knock on his door. This time, the person doesn’t wait for a response before stepping inside, clutching a tray of food. It’s Mar—bless her cotton socks. And the aromas wafting from the tray in her hands are making Andrew’s mouth water: he’s suddenly _ravenous_. Maybe it _has_ been too long since he’s had a proper meal, if a spot of soup and a couple of sandwiches are causing this much of a reaction in him.

“Mar you’re a godsend,” Andrew breathes out, smiling at his second in command, all but making grabby hands for the tray. 

“Sure thing, boss-man,” she says, with an easy smile and a wink. “I know that when Elizabeth comes in saying I should accompany you for a meal, it isn’t really a suggestion. And, well, knowing you I was painfully aware there wasn’t a chance in hell I was actually going to drag you out of your cave, barring a cataclysmic event. So, I figured I could bring the food to you, easily enough.” She shrugs prettily, tossing long auburn locks over her shoulder as she takes a seat on the other side of his desk. 

Andrew pulls the tray closer to him, looking eagerly at the food and trying to decide between soup and sandwich, _why did she bring me choices?_ Deciding the sandwich is a safer bet, considering how famished he is, he grabs half of it with one hand and pushes the biscuit tin towards Mar with the other. He wouldn’t normally share this kind of treat, but he definitely can afford to be magnanimous, right now, especially with Mar, because he’s pretty sure she’s half the reason he’s even somewhat sane at work, most of the time. Also, the way her eyes light up when she sees the tin make it entirely worth it. Mar, like everyone else in this establishment, absolutely _adores_ Elizabeth’s baking. 

She carefully selects two pieces of shortbread from the tin, grabbing a tissue from the box on the desk and laying them on it before closing the box and pushing it back towards him, kind of as if it was a hot potato. “Please, take those away from me. I have absolutely no self-control when it comes to Liz’s shortbread.”

Andrew grunts in acknowledgement through a massive bite of his sandwich, trying very hard not to spray Mar with crumbs as he demolishes it with frightening speed. _It’s so good._

Mar just gives him a look that conveys her mild disgust at his horrible manners. “While you’re busy, I’ll give you a few general and possibly mildly boring updates, shall I?” she suggests, starting off on a bit of a debrief of the work she and her team have been doing as Andrew listens and focuses on nourishing himself. 

She speaks for several minutes, giving status updates on agents in the field, those in medical, and a rather uplifting update on the almost-ready status of Stewart and Lamberton. Andrew is particularly thrilled to hear that, as soon as they can be scheduled for fitness tests, they will be mission-ready once more. 

He swallows heavily and clears his throat before attempting to speak, swallowing down his last spoonful of soup. “Do we have missions lined up for them?” he asks her, wiping out his bowl with a crusty end of his sandwich bread. 

“Not yet,” she says, “but I’m sure something will come up between now and when they’re given the all-clear. Business is booming, if this week is any indication.” She pushes up her glasses and rubs her eyes, clearly just as exhausted and overworked as him.

“I don't doubt it,” he agrees, exhausted himself at the mere thought. He pushes his tray to the side and pulls his tablet closer to him once again. “While you’re here, I wanted to go over some of this data with you. I had just pulled some hospital records for David’s case.”

Mar smirks. “How is _he_ doing, by the way? Galahad was looking rather fresh and smiley last time I saw him—is David finally delivering?"

“Oh, fuck, I hope so,” Andrew says with a laugh. “Although with those two you can never really tell, I suppose. I wasn’t sure if they were fucking or fighting most of the time, even before Merlin and I dropped them off on Ben Macdui. But honestly, Mar: I could happily live the rest of my life not having to hear about yet another of David’s frankly ridiculous conquests.”

Mar giggles. “I think that if those two _are_ fucking, you’ll most likely be hearing about it.”

“Probably a fair assessment,” Andrew replies, chuckling. “My lot in life, I suppose.”

“Oh,” Mar says, straightening slightly in her seat. “I forgot to mention that Randy asked for some more time off. The babe’s condition has deteriorated again, and he wants to be with Lydia to try to take her to another specialist.”

Andrew winces. Yet another thing that has fallen off his radar with this week’s clusterfuck. “I’ll get in touch with the medical team again, to see what we can do. Genetic abnormalities aren’t really a Clansman priority as far as R&D is concerned, though, so I’m not sure how much extra help we’ll be. Maybe, let’s make some calls around to see if there’s anything we can do to help with those specialists they’ve been seeing?”

Mar nods and makes a note on the tablet she’s pulled out of her satchel. “Any other business items we should be taking a look at before I head back to my pit, chief?”

“Oh, right. Before our little detour about David’s _bedroom antics_ ,” Andrew says, scrunching his face up a bit, in mock-disgust, and returning to the data on his own device. “I was telling you about medical records. Sending them off to you now. It really does appear this is all connected to those superbug bites that have been coming up all over the news. I’ve gone and pulled records from surgeries and hospitals in highly affected areas—hopefully we can isolate records of these bites from the regular run-of-the-mill bites and see what might tie them together with the corpses that have been disappearing. That’s the only commonality between the dead—as far as we can tell, at least. And there are now apparently people walking about with these bites no worse for the wear, so it’s clearly not uniquely a fatal bite.” 

Mar’s keen gaze flicks up from the records she has already started flicking through. “I’ll get right on that boss. Get this back to you by the end of the day, if that’s alright?”

“Even tomorrow is fine Mar,” Andrew says with a rueful head shake, they’re workaholics, the both of them. Absolutely peas in a pod. “Take a night off, if you can manage it. This will keep.” _It’s bloody Sunday._

“Alright then, chief. As long as you listen to your own advice and take tonight off as well,” she says, with a smirk and a salute, as she rises from her chair, brushing off the remaining shortbread crumbs from her shirt.

“Thanks for the updates, and the food Mar. I really appreciate it.” Andrew says, standing and walking her to the door. 

“Anytime, boss. Need to keep you around. I certainly don’t want your job,” Mar says teasingly. 

“Cheeky monkey,” he mutters, mostly to himself, as he returns to his desk, noting that Martha has once again taken up residence on top of his tablet. “The both of you. I don’t know why I put up with it,” he says, addressing the cat, who opens one eye to stare at him balefully in protest, before going back to sleep. 

_Fair enough, maybe it’s time for me to take a break too._

*

**_MacGregor and MacDuff Kiltmakers, Bath Street, Glasgow. Monday morning._ **

Andrew lets himself into the shop clutching a raspberry Danish in one hand and Bothwell’s second favourite knitting magazine in the other. The dead silence in the small, carpeted space is eerie, even for a Monday morning. No-one is behind the counter.

“Bothwell?” he calls out, looking right and left, as if the giant man could possibly be hiding amidst tartan and sporrans.

“In here, chief!” Bothwell replies, his gruff deep voice coming from somewhere to the right. Andrew walks in the direction of the noise, and he realises Bothwell must be holed up somewhere, most likely one of the fitting rooms in the basement. (Those that are not _actually_ fitting rooms, that goes without saying.)

Could it be—

Oh, yes it can. “ _Madain mhath_ , boss,” Fraser’s thick, smooth brogue, deep blue eyes and heartwarming smile greet Andrew as soon as he opens the fitting room door. Bothwell is standing behind him, and he’s got a measuring tape wrapped around Fraser’s neck, measuring his collar. “Fancy seeing you here,” Fraser adds, with a smirk and an eyebrow raise.

“Good mornin’ Hume!” booms Bothwell, grinning widely.

“Gentlemen,” Andrew greets them, then dangles the paper bag containing the Danish and the magazine briefly in front of him, nodding at Bothwell, _got you these_ , and gets a silent _thank you_ from the man. He then turns to Fraser. “Wasn’t expecting you home so soon, Agent. Our good tailor friends’ hospitality not to your liking, then?”

“Oh, no, no, no, they were absolutely lovely, the lot of them,” Fraser says charmingly, as Bothwell gently straightens his neck to better take his measurements. “Just keen to come home. I have, um, a wedding to go to.”

“Hence all this, I presume,” Andrew replies, gesturing at the five different rolls of tartan laid out on displays all around them, and Fraser’s quite apparent half-nakedness. _This is an actual kilt fitting, after all._

“Hence all this, but let me reassure ye: it’s all in the name of the good work we do here at Clansman, of course. The Chief himself greenlighted this. A high-profile _seduction_ mission.” _Fraser’s refusal to use the correct term for it is always as hilarious as ever._ “Some Countess, related to the Lord I was supposed to be saving from that assassin.”

Andrew is baffled by the amount of quite obviously important information being thrown his way in the matter of a couple of sentences. And _new_ information, at that.

“Whoa, whoa. What? A honeypot? At a wedding? What wedding? How is this the first I’m hearing of t—sorry, Bothwell, mate: would you mind giving us a few? Feels weird talking shop when this one hasn’t even got trousers on,” Andrew says, scratching his chin and grinning.

“But of course, chief. Let ye lads debrief and we’ll get back to it. Not many people scheduled in today, anyways. We can go through all those new colours I was telling you about earlier, Fraser,” Bothwell replies, a twinkle in his eye while mentioning the _new stuff_ he’s got in for the shop. _Best kiltmakers in the world, awrite._

“Cannae wait,” Fraser quips back, winking at Bothwell as the big man retreats from the room, closing the door behind himself. “Right, so. Guessing you have questions, Andrew?” Fraser prompts, looking quite unnecessarily smug.

“Um, yeah? I take Sunday night off—the first one in months, might I add—and you and the Chief start plotting side-missions without me?” Andrew asks, quite exasperated. _On Yesterday morning I was busy putting out literal fires in this fucking agency, and now, less than twenty-four hours later, I don’t even know what my own agents are up to? Not okay, Robert. Not. Okay._ “Explain yourself, Jamie. Start from the beginning, preferably,” he adds, in a rather hard tone.

“It’s nice to see you too, Andrew, _mo caraid_ ,” Fraser replies, sardonically. “In my defense, it literally came up last night at 2 AM. Robert thought it best you heard it from me this morning than wake you in the early hours.”

_Right, I’m definitely booking Robert in for a medical examination, then, because this is unprecedented. He’s never, ever had any problems throwing stuff at me at stupid hours before._

“How thoughtful of him,” Andrew says, rolling his eyes just a tad. “So? Wedding? Countess? And is Lord Caine alive and well, then? Did you take down that assassin? How come I didn’t get a confirmed kill notification?” 

Fuck. Andrew needs to calm down. The control freak is showing, big time.

Fraser, however, doesn’t seem phased. He just smiles kindly down at him, then points to the comfy-looking armchair in the far right corner of the room. “Why don’t ye take a seat, Andrew. I suspect we’ll be here for a while.”

“Yeah, yeah, good call,” Andrew replies, moving towards the chair. On it, Fraser’s trousers lie expectantly, so he picks them up and tosses them the man’s way before plopping down in the seat. 

Fraser goes on to tell him all about his last mission: how he was tailing this assassin, known in the underworld as _The Dagger_ , hired by an underground terrorist cell whom has reportedly been targeting a member of the House of Lords because of a highly controversial anti-terrorism bill he has been pushing (newspapers have nicknamed it the ‘Montague 2.0’, for its many similarities to the one that got Home Secretary Julia Montague brutally killed, a few years back); how Fraser had gotten very close to catching the man, one night, but ultimately got caught himself, and had to flee; how the assassin subsequently disappeared from all radars, leaving Fraser hopeless and disappointed in his own beginner’s mistakes; how he’d then thought he’d better keep a closer eye on the target, since Lord Caine was likely to be sneaked up on at even more unsuspecting times; how he’d ultimately ended up being tailed by the squadron of bodyguards on Lord Caine’s payroll—who’d mistaken him for The Dagger—and ultimately retreated to Kingsman in Savile Row for cover; how Merlin helped him out, using his network of London surveillance cameras and inside men in the House, only to report back that, as utterly bizarre as that might sound, the threat on Lord Caine seemed to have truly vanished in a puff of smoke; and, finally, how the wedding and the honeypot will be a perfect opportunity to try and gather further information on The Dagger—since, apparently, the Countess of Aberdeen is one of the man’s lovers.

“Okay. Yeah, that is odd, indeed.” Andrew pauses briefly, taking the time to ponder over the fact he’d kind of wish Merlin would consult him before picking up his tasks, but equally that the man was just probably doing him a solid, and concluding the right course of action is simply to send some shortbread and a good bottle of whisky his way, to thank him for the help. “Has Merlin still got eyes on Lord Caine?”

“Aye, he sends me daily updates.” _Oh, bless him._ “Nothing new on that front. Apart from the fact that Lord Caine has finally gone back to his country club this past weekend. That was previously flagged as one of the most likely spots for an attack. Merlin sent Ms. Mort—um, _Lancelot_ ,” Fraser quickly corrects himself, going rather red in the face, “on a brief recon. The building was clean, and zero threats on the grounds as well.”

Deliberately ignoring the obvious red flag waving in the middle of the conversation—Fraser potentially getting overly familiar with yet another unsuspecting female, this one a _Kingsman agent_ , no less—Andrew ponders for a beat. What he concludes is that “It doesn’t add up, though, does it? Lord Caine was a dead man walking for months on end. And now, like this, he’s out of the woods? Overnight? Does Merlin have any theories?”

“I think he might. Showed me surveillance pics of Lord Caine: weird bite mark on the nape of his neck? And he noticed The Dagger has the same? Did he connect with you on this? Although I suspect I’m not blowing yer mind, here, chief: it’s apparently hit the news in the past couple of days, as well.”

“A bite?” Andrew asks, suddenly excited. “Are you sure about this, Jamie?”

“Positive, chief. Hold on,” Fraser replies, his gaze going very still and vacuous for a second, as he taps his temple with his right index finger. “Forwarding you what Merlin sent me, so you can see for yerself.”

“Thanks Jamie,” Andrew mutters, already staring absently into space as he examines the images. And there it is, peeking from underneath Lord Caine’s crisp, starchy shirt collar: the bite mark, angry red and inflamed. And there it is again, out in the open, poorly hidden by The Dagger’s muscle vest while he’s lifting weights at some gym in town. 

Andrew is so engrossed that he barely notices when Bothwell returns, measuring tape in hand and jovial smile on his face. Andrew takes his leave from the two men, then lets himself out of the fitting room.

Now, more than ever, he needs to speak to Merlin. 

*

**_MacGregor and MacDuff Kiltmakers, Bath Street, Glasgow. Andrew’s office. Fifteen minutes later._ **

“I wondered when I would be hearing from you, Hume.” Merlin’s brogue, softened by decades of living in London spills into his ears as his body winks into shape in front of him. 

“Oh?” Andrew says disbelievingly, arms crossed in front of his chest. 

Merlin narrows his eyes at Andrew. “Was there an issue with your agent getting back to you?”

“No, Fraser is back safe and sound. Appreciate your assistance with that one, yet again. No issues from him while he was there?”

“Apart from the trail of broken hearts he’s left behind him, nothing major to report, really.” 

“Glad to hear it, Merlin. Actually, Fraser is the reason I’m calling, and I’m sorry it has taken me so long to reach out.” Andrew feels exhausted and chagrined but plows on. “He had mentioned that you have been gathering evidence that seems to be relating to the investigation into the disappearances? Mysterious bites on the back of the neck?”

“Aye, I had been meaning to speak to you about all of this. Last night, Mar forwarded me her findings from those medical records, and I decided to have the agents keep an eye out for any abnormalities around here. Definitely not terribly commonplace, to be quite frank, even here in London, with the population we have. But we have been seeing more and more people popping up with bites, all in the same place. A few deaths and disappearances, but most of them surviving and continuing about their daily lives.”

“Hmm. That’s definitely interesting.” _And you’ve found this all overnight? Mate, sounds like we both need to sleep more._

“More interesting than all of that, is that there seems to be a higher incidence of bite victims among politicians and celebrities. It’s uncommon to see more than one person with a bite, unless you work at Westminster or work on television.” Merlin looks incredibly frustrated. “Either that, or those are the only ones we are seeing because they are still incredibly uncommon on the streets.”

Andrew huffs in amazement and profound gratitude. “I hadn’t realised… I appreciate you taking the initiative on this one. I owe both you and Mar a pint after all this is over.”

“Just send me some of Liz’s shortbread, and we’ll be even,” Merlin says with a wink before his expression turns serious once again. “I don’t suppose you know what the endgame with all of this is yet? What these bites are actually doing to people, if anything past killing some?”

Andrew makes a frustrated sound. “No. Nothing yet—but Wallace and Galahad are still following some leads, so hopefully we’ll have something to work with soon.”

Merlin nods before looking down at the clipboard in his hand and straightening slightly. “Oh Andrew, I forgot to mention. There was a slight update to your boy Fraser’s mission. Nothing big, but I figured I would pass it along since I’ve got you here.”

“Of course, Merlin. I’m at your disposal, always.”

“The Dagger has all but gone underground, waiting for his next contract, and definitely seems to have lost all interest in Lord Caine. As for the posh bastard himself, he has resumed his life as it was before, it seems. Took lunch with Isla Seymour just today, in full view of anyone passing by, so he really appears to have not a care in the world.”

Andrew’s brow furrows slightly. “Isla Seymour? Why do I know that name?”

“Ah, yes. The Duchess of Somerset, quite a name about town these days. She seems to have her finger in a lot of pies and is hosting all sorts of charity galas all over the place to promote positive climate action. She seems to have gained an enormous online following.” Even Merlin sounds mildly impressed. 

_The Duchess of Somerset._ Andrew pauses slightly in shock. Oba had also just mentioned that name, and said she’d attended one of her events. Oba, who seemingly has just jumped on the _climate activism_ bandwagon. 

It seems that Andrew needs to do a bit of digging himself. First things first—where did Oba say the next event was to be held? He pulls up his tablet and taps on it a few times, frantically looking for something. The silence drags on for several long moments while Andrew is focused on his madcap search.

“Lad?” Merlin queries, looking a bit concerned over Andrew’s peculiarly long silence. 

“Found it!” Andrew exclaims, visibly startling Merlin. “Apologies, Merlin. I knew I’d heard that name somewhere recently, and it turns out I’m not going quite as crazy as I thought.” Andrew grins viciously and taps on an image, sending off the information about the conference and the photo to his Kingsman counterpart. “Take a look at this and tell me what you see.”

He zooms in on the photograph, on the elegant older woman flanked by a handsome, young, dark-haired man and a strikingly beautiful red-headed woman. _Well, that may be our way in, then_. He muses to himself, before flicking up his eyes to meet Merlin’s, the Scotsman’s face is twisted into a knowing smirk. 

“Planning on putting their _best talents_ to use?” Merlin jibes. Andrew just snorts in response and begins to prepare a briefing package.

“I guess we best ring up Wallace and Galahad and tell them to pack their bags: they’re going to Rome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welllll here we are again. Phew, poor Andrew: we'll all have a drink on his behalf, shall we?
> 
> This is really where the plot thickens, folks. And partly because of that, we have an announcement to make: we're taking a small break for the month of August. We're both leaving for our summer holidays, and we need to catch up on some actual writing because we've been extra freaking busy the whole of July. *sobs* 
> 
> We'll really miss you, but we promise we'll be back, and that the stuff we'll throw at you will be bigger and better than ever, and that it will contain heaps and heaps of pining and Idiot Boys(TM) to satisfy your cravings. Also, who knows, maybe a ~~resolution to this goddamned slow burn~~? Only time will tell.
> 
> We can't wait to hear what you thought of this, and we're looking forward to coming back in September.
> 
> Love you loads, have a great one <3
> 
> M and C xx


	13. X. Osculum Letale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This isnae a fecking Marvel movie, chief."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god. Guess who finally got her life together and kept the promise she made a month ago to be back in September? THIS GIRL
> 
> It's so good to be back. And, one could argue, with a bang. But I'll let you be the judge of that, eh?
> 
> First, the usual wee bits of admin.
> 
> As usual, because good habits shan't be changed, here is [some music for you](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7qlLH1vSuHufuze1PRqLzp?si=pz95Hp6KSXedyiS9aMBYDw).
> 
> Second, a bit of a refresher on our fantastic cast:
> 
> \- **Dr. Skye Taylor** , here playing her sneaky alias **Ruby Thompson** is played by Sophie Turner  
> \- **Isla Seymour, the Duchess of Somerset** is played by Dame Emma Thompson  
> \- **Sir John Catesby, Baronet of Ridlington** is played by the original Wolf Boy, Kit Harington
> 
> Massive thanks to the absolute _stars_ who are saving a poor girl from getting lost in her own confused brain, [soft_science](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_science) and [bibliophilesdoitbetter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliophilesdoitbetter). You pair of gems, you. <3
> 
> And that's about it, I reckon. The boys are in Rome, and there's _something_ in the air.
> 
> Happy reading!

**_X. Osculum Letale_ **

**_Fiumicino Airport, Rome. Early May. 10:13 AM_ **

The first thing that jumps to David’s attention when he first sets foot on the—one could argue— _sacred_ grounds of the Eternal City isn’t, like he thought (like he _remembered_ ) the strong smell of coffee and fresh pastries. It’s not the faint whiff of iodine coming from the Ostia port, either. It’s not even the singing, loud voices of Italian families reuniting at the arrivals gate.

No, what greets David as soon as he’s off the plane—with Eggsy right behind him looking chipper and excited—is a text. And not a text from just anyone, either: a text from bloody _Arthur_ himself. 

It’s just there, glimmering blue before David’s eyes within the network, waiting to be opened. _What does he want with me, now?_ The mere idea of Arthur as a constant presence in Eggsy’s—and, therefore, somehow by osmosis, David’s life—is enough to fill David’s stomach with nervous butterflies at the best of times, but this? _Direct interactions_? Absolutely fuck that.

As they get into the car that’s waiting for them by the Clansman private jet and they speed away through the tarmac, David keeps staring at the flowy letters and the “K” symbol floating next to them, somehow ominous—a sword of Damocles of sorts—not quite daring to open it.

He must look like he’s lost inside his own head after a while, because he feels Eggsy’s hand on his knee, delicately squeezing. He turns to look at Eggsy. He’s wearing a navy baseball cap that says _twenty two_ on the front, and a huge grin on his stupid handsome face. “You okay?” he asks. “You seem preoccupied.”

 _Oh, what the fuck, David: it’s just a text from one of the bosses. Man up and open it._ “All good, don’ worry,” David replies, trying to mirror Eggsy’s grin. Seemingly satisfied, Eggsy nods at David and squeezes his knee softly once more, then goes back to looking out of the window, the terminal building closer and closer now. David pinches his thumb and forefinger together and finally clicks on the notification. 

_Word of warning, Agent Wallace: if anything at all happens that results in Eggsy getting hurt in any way, you’ll have to answer to me directly. And I can promise you, I won’t be kind. Good day to you._

David reads the text once, and he concludes it’s really not what he was expecting. 

He reads it again. The second time really brings out all the spite and mistrust oozing from the words—the words of the Head of one of the world’s most prominent privately-run secret organisations, directed to a top Agent of another of the world’s most prominent privately-run secret organisations. And yet, why do they feel so _personal_?

A third read confirms David’s suspicion: it’s that nonchalant way Arthur has openly referred to him as Eggsy. Not Galahad, not any other kind of Kingsman-related epithet: _Eggsy_. That feels… familiar. Intimate. Possessive?

Fuck. _Fuck._

This could be so bad, on so many different levels. _Best tread carefully, here_ , David thinks, moving the message out of his sight by blinking once. 

Then, however, he still covers Eggsy's hand with his, for the briefest moment. It's to reassure Eggsy, but also to reassure himself. Arthur doesn't have eyes everywhere, after all—and the rogue, hopeful-against-hope side of David is telling him that Eggsy's been looking at him differently, since their decoy kiss, and that if he's right, well, Arthur can one hundred percent go fuck himself.

*

**_Hotel Campo de’ Fiori, Via del Biscione, Rome. 12:06 PM._ **

David has just let himself into his room at the hotel when he feels the buzz in his fingers signalling an incoming call. He steps into the ostentatiously appointed room, grimacing slightly at the opulent gaudiness while settling his brown leather weekender bag gently onto the far right side of the luggage carrier. He’s still waiting for his case to be delivered by the bellhop, who is taking way too long for his liking.

He sighs in resignation, settling into the chair across from the bed, and accepts the call with a gentle tap of the fingers.

“Took you long enough, Wallace,” Julia’s clear voice rings out in his ear.

“Jules? Is something the matter? I wasnae expecting tae hear from you today,” David asks concernedly, sitting up a bit straighter in the ornate armchair.

“Don’t be silly, everything is fine here. I just wanted to check in with you to see how it’s going in Rome with the _beau_ , and give you some news.” David can hear the smirk in his best friend’s voice even without seeing her face. 

“First off, he’s not my _beau_ , and secondly we’ve only just gotten to the hotel, all of five minutes ago: we haven’t even had a chance to see any of Rome yet.”

“Awfully defensive, aren’t you, love?” Julia chides teasingly before relenting. “Alright, I’ll stop. I really just wanted to let you know that Hume just told me that Randy and Lydia got into a really exclusive clinical trial!”

“That’s so great! Was this through one of Andrew’s contacts?”

“You know you should be using code names while on missions, even over secure channels, _darling_.” David can hear the pout in her voice. “But no, anyways: this was something else entirely. Hume has no idea how they got in. It’s some high profile private biogenics lab that’s running the trial out of some hospital in Iceland, of all places. He’s looking into it now, but apparently they got in through some sort of online web forum or another?”

David frowns, suddenly concerned. “That sounds a bit dodgy. But the lab checks out as legitimate?”

“Yes. That, at least, Hume has been able to ascertain for sure. The lead scientist is a Doctor Skye Taylor, who is a leading geneticist and microbiologist. _Young_ , but competent. It’s a relatively new outfit, but she’s the best of the best, it seems.”

David, just about to respond, is cut off by a knock at the door.

“Just a moment, Moray. That would be my bags,” he says, standing once more from his seat to get the door, digging with one hand in his trouser pocket for some euros. He swings it open wide, not bothering to check who it is, and is all but startled to not be faced with an Italian man holding his luggage. Instead, he is almost bowled over by Eggsy as he bounces into the room, dragging David’s suitcase behind him. 

“No need for the tip, Budd,” he says with a saucy wink, eyeing the notes in David’s outstretched palm, before turning around and bending over to haul the heavy case up onto the stand next to David’s other bag, his trousers once again pulling tight around his now flexing and very shapely butt—making David lose his train of thought completely. _Damn that man and his perfect backside. It’s a fucking lethal weapon._

“Oooh, is that our Galahad? Coming into your room for a visit, now, is he? Naughty, naughty,” Julia mocks quietly in his ear. David, for once extremely glad that they aren’t sharing video, is spared any additional commentary about his partner’s posterior being on proud display. 

“Thank you, Eggsy,” David finally coughs out, after a false start and a bit of a squeak. 

“No worries stud. And you should know, by the way: I exclusively take payment in the form of sexual favours, and I’m not quite sure you can afford me,” Eggsy says, in a super camp tone, before—David has no other term for it— _sashaying_ over to the bed and stretching himself out over the bedspread, in an overly suggestive way, then breaking into peals of laughter. 

David, at once aroused and slightly uncomfortable, has Julia cackling away madly in his ear and his very attractive partner lounging on his bed, giving him almost coquettish looks and a shit-eating grin. 

“You’re a wee shite, you know that?” he accuses, once again flopping back onto the chair he had been sitting in previously. 

“Oh, I know,” Eggsy replies, once again in that camp voice. “It’s one of my many _, many_ charms.”

“Alright lads, I know when I’m not wanted,” Julia’s voice interrupts their bantering. 

David is startled for a second. “Sorry, love. I’d forgotten that you were still on the line,” he says apologetically. At once, he sees Eggsy’s face sharpen in— _what is that? Shock? Concern? Disappointment?_

“It’s alright, David,” she replies, benevolent and cheeky. “I can hear you have your hands quite full at the moment. I’ll leave you to it.” David can almost feel her elbow in his ribs from thousands of miles away, encouraging him to make a move, or _do something_. _Not like there’s much I can do, really. If that message from his boss is anything to go by, I’d say encroaching on what is obviously his territory would be considered “harming more than a single hair on his head”_. 

“Take care of yourself, Julia, and you’ll come over to mine when you get back from Thailand? Not too much longer now, love,” David says, encouragingly, knowing that she has been holed up in that sweatbucket for weeks now and must be dying to get home. 

“Sounds good! Bye for now, handsome.” David can almost see her crooking finger wave as she signs off and the line disconnects. 

“Sorry about that, Julia—sorry, _Moray_ —just called to give me a bit of an update on some good news from back home,” David tries to explain.

“It’s all good mate. No apologies required. I’m sorry I made such an arse of myself in front of Julia. I shouldn’t have assumed you were alone.” Eggsy looks slightly downtrodden as he pulls himself more upright on the bed and fiddles with the bedspread. 

The silence stretches uncomfortably for a few eternal moments as David tries desperately to think of something to fill the thick air between them, panicked and at a complete loss. Then, by some miracle, Eggsy speaks once again. “Did you maybe want to go through the notes that Hume sent? I noticed I had a few new notifications for a secondary briefing package that has been added.”

David notes mutely, still uncertain and wrong-footed. Is it just Julia putting ideas into his head, or is Eggsy really disappointed? _But what about that message from Arthur, then? Have I been reading this situation all wrong?_

To cover his confusion, David turns away and pulls his tablet out of his bag so that they can easily review the briefing together—once again wishing that Hume would just lighten up already about the secrecy behind the neural network, so that he and Eggsy could just get this done with half the hassle. 

“Here we go,” David mutters, tapping a couple times, briefly checking the screen to familiarise himself with the contents before passing the tech over to Eggsy. “Hume sent these additional files along this morning, it seems.”

Eggsy, his brow furrowed, flips through the documents for a few minutes before stopping dead, his eyes widen in shock and then a pained grimace crosses his face.

“Seems we know what our mission is going to be,” Eggsy says, tilting the screen towards David so he can see a bit better. 

“What is it?” David asks, reaching out to adjust the screen away from the glare from the windows. When his eyes finally focus on the details, David blanches. _That absolute fuck. Every. Time._

The screen shows a photograph of three people: an older woman, whom he vaguely recognises from watching the news, and her two extremely attractive younger companions, standing at a slight distance behind her. David uses his fingers to zoom in on them. “These two, I take it?” he asks, with a sardonic head tilt.

“Well, if it’s the Duchess herself, we’ll be drawing a lot of attention to ourselves,” Eggsy replies uncertainly. “So—who is targeting who?” 

David shrugs, no real preference either way on his part. “Shall we consult the boss?”

Before he can even finish the thought, the tablet starts to buzz, and Hume’s face pops up on screen. David taps to accept the call and sits more comfortably on the bed. 

“Ah, I see you got my gift, lads. I was just checking to see that you had settled in alright.” 

“Yes, we’re here and we’re safe—and you’re a complete cock, as always,” David seethes. “Why didn’t you mention that this was a _honeypot_ , Andrew?”

Hume just chuckles and ignores the question. “Any questions about the mission specs? We have all of the necessary background legwork done on our end, and both your aliases, Gary Unwin and Robert Sutherland, are registered for the conference. Your best chance to meet up with your targets will be at the Duchess’s after-party at the Hotel de Russie, tomorrow night.”

“I take it we have invites for that as well?” Eggsy queries, uncertainly. 

Hume pauses for a beat longer than expected before replying, “Well… no. Not presently, at least.” David arches an incredulous eyebrow and Andrew continues on in a rush. “I can _likely_ get you in, if you can’t get yourselves invited by someone at the conference.”

“...but?” David presses.

“ _But_ —it would be through a _personal connection_ ,” Hume finally admits. “Something I’d rather avoid, if you two can manage it on your own.”

David looks up and meets eyes with Eggsy who is wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. 

“Right-o then. We’ll do our best to get ourselves in and keep an eye out for your _friend_ ,” David says grinning wickedly, grunting slightly when Eggsy elbows him not-so-gently in the ribs, making David look up at him. Eggsy jerks his chin towards Hume’s image and David takes in the narrowed eyes and clenched jaw. _Whoops. Best back off then._

“Wait, _Gary Unwin_?” David’s eyes narrow, finally realising what Andrew just said about the aliases. “Andrew, I thought we agreed no more missions with real identities?”

“Have you read absolutely none of the briefing package, Wallace?” 

“I read _my_ parts,” David grumbles defensively. 

Eggsy snorts. “Obviously not too closely. I’m too well-known in these sorts of circles to use an alias. Especially since Tilde was at the last event in Sweden. I’ll be going as myself, but I’ll make a point of calling myself Gary Smith unless we’re with someone who obviously knows who I am,” he says with a shrug. “I think people will understand me wanting to fly under the radar—for Tilde’s sake, at the very least. And our hosts will definitely know who I am, since I’m registered to the conference under my own name and it will have raised the appropriate flags for them.” 

“Quite right,” Hume butts in. “As Galahad says, he serves us best in this capacity, and his real name will open more doors for him than any alias we could dream up. Also, it gives the two of you reason to spend time together at the conference, and during off-hours, as ex-Prince Gary here is your regular London tailor and of high enough social calibre to justify your alias spending time with him socially.” Hume locks eyes with David. “I know you’re leery of not using aliases after what happened to you in London, but this should be simple with minimal danger, especially for Galahad. We had no other choice, and Galahad is more than aware of the risks and he has accepted them.”

David looks up to meet Eggsy’s gaze, steely with resolve, then he nods. “Right, fine. It seems I’m overruled on this one. Although I will now state, for the record, that I don’t agree with this.”

“Your objection is duly noted, Wallace,” Hume says, sounding amused. “Lucky for us, you don’t get a veto on this one.” 

David grumbles a bit but lets it go, waving his hand in resignation at his partner and quartermaster.

“Alright then, if you two don’t have any more questions or concerns, I’ll leave you to it. The conference starts in less than an hour and you still have to get yourselves pretty and proper, and get to the Hotel de Russie.”

“Hume, wait!” Eggsy calls out, interrupting him. “You never did tell us who specifically our targets are, between the two of them.”

Hume just rolls his eyes. “I really don’t care which one you fuck, Galahad. You’re big boys. Work it out between yourselves. You can play rock, paper, scissors, if you like—I don’t wanna know. Just get me the results I’m looking for, eh?” The call ends abruptly, and the screen on the tablet goes black. 

David lets the silence ring out for a long moment, before holding out his fist. “Rock, paper, scissors then, mate?”

Ignoring the outstretched fist, Eggsy flops back on the bed, covering his eyes with his hands and blowing out loudly through his mouth. A long moment later, he scrubs his face with his hands and rolls over, grabbing for the tablet once again. “Okay, let’s look this over once more, instead of deciding our fate using a children’s game.” He taps a few times, scrolling and zooming in and out on photographs and skimming through text. “It looks like our targets are John Catesby, and Ruby Thompson, the Duchess’s PAs.”

“What kind of Duchess needs _two_ personal assistants?”

“Dunno—lots of social events to manage, I guess?” Eggsy says with a shrug, before flicking his eyes up to meet David’s with a wry grin. “Although this Ruby girl seems like she’s just your type, Budd. I’d bet you’d have no problem getting everything we need from her.”

“And I’d like to see you put your money where your mouth is and prove your _interests_ aren’t just for a certain individual,” David says with a wry wink. _Bloody Arthur_. “And to be fair, this Catesby fella looks like a tasty morsel. I’m sure you would have _lots_ of fun with him.” 

Eggys cocks an eyebrow, then gives him a half-smirk. “Fine. I guess it’s decided then.” He levers himself off the bed and tosses the tablet back to David. “I suppose I’d better get back to my room and put on a monkey suit. It will have to be the Kingsman one for today, I think,” he muses to himself as he makes his way to the door. “Shall we ride to the Russie together, or get separate cars?” he asks, turning back just as he’s about to leave the room. 

David considers the question for a beat. “Probably best that we meet there, at least for today. Establish our covers independently, and meet up like old friends when we see each other in the crowd. It will draw less attention to us.” 

Eggsy nods. “Sound plan, Budd. I’ll see you there, then.” He lets the door shut quietly behind him with a quiet snick.

David stares at the dark wood for several moments before forcing himself into motion. _Time to get to work._

*

**_Hotel de Russie, Via del Babuino, Rome. The following morning. 10 AM_ **

As he makes his way into the intimate conference hall, David looks around as inconspicuously as he can, trying to spot his partner in the crowd, already sizeable despite the early hour. After a few brief moments, he sees Eggsy standing in line at the back of the room, waiting for the barista to make his coffee. He catches Eggsy’s eye and nods at him, indicating that he’ll join him over by the bar. 

He does his best to keep up his façade of a cool debonair business tycoon, even with the warring emotions within him. The loudest of them all is the rising tide of panic from being in a room with limited exits and packed in with people he knows well could be a threat—a room filled with climate extremists? Fuck’s sake, he’s felt safer diffusing _bombs_ —which is also conflicting with the discouragement from yesterday’s lack of results. Despite diligently working the room separately between sessions yesterday afternoon, attempting to snag an invitation to tonight’s after-party, the day ended with both him and Eggsy returning to their hotel very much empty-handed. From the patchwork of information they’ve managed to put together in the last twenty-four hours, it distinctly sounds like the majority of the conference attendees were not invited to tonight’s soirée, either; only a select group of VIPs from the conference would be allowed to attend, along with a small group of celebrities and A-listers that would be coming in just for the event. 

David’s phone beeps in his pocket as he makes his way over to Eggsy’s side. He is keenly aware that there are only few people who will contact him on his personal mobile phone—those not connected to the Clansman network, usually, which implies a high possibility of it being either Vicky or one of the kids. He itches to pull it out and check it, just in case it’s urgent, but ultimately resists, knowing that it could compromise their current operation. He will check it when he has a moment alone. 

A few short strides later, David is finally standing next to Eggsy, making idle chit-chat and scanning the room for a likely candidate who might be attending tonight’s party, and that they might have not spoken to yet. 

While he’s looking around, David feels the jab of Eggsy’s elbow in his ribs, pulling his attention away from the conversation he’s been eavesdropping on between an ‘enlightened’ oil tycoon and some sort of internet influencer. 

“Oi Rob, is that…?” Eggsy trails off, indicating someone across the room with a flick of his chin. David follows his gaze, and he feels his eyes widen infinitesimally in shocked recognition. 

“I do believe it is. Now, that’s _definitely_ someone the Duchess would have on her guestlist for tonight,” he says, eyeing the ebony-skinned starlet who appears to be deep in conversation with the upcoming panelists on the other side of the room.

David feels his comlink go live and a gusty sigh ring out over the air. “I was hoping we wouldn’t have to resort to this,” Hume’s dry voice rings out. David darts his eyes over to Eggsy, silently asking his partner if he’s also hearing Hume’s commentary. The other man gives a minute nod as his eyes widen slightly in shock—he’s on the line too. “She’s the, um, _personal connection_ I mentioned yesterday.”

“No _way_ , guv,” Eggsy’s voice is slightly awed, before he drops his voice to a murmur to avoid attracting attention. “You’re dating Oba Barasa? Why didn’t you say anything? Would have saved us a load of work yesterday.”

“It isn’t my job to make your lives easier at the expense of my personal privacy, Agent.” 

David struggles to muffle a rather loud chuckle. Is it just him, or is Hume getting even more testy with every passing second?

Eggsy just snorts quietly in response, not even trying to be subtle. “Like personal privacy is a concern for you, now, is it? You’ve got me here as myself, and you’ve sent _Rob_ here out on the road with even less. Least you can do is let us do a bit of Andrew—she does call you _Andrew_ doesn’t she? Figure it would be a bit awkward in bed, having a girl call you ‘Hume’, eh?” Eggsy chuckles, clearly very proud of his ribbing of their cranky handler. “But I digress. I reckon, with your permission, of course, oh Grand Master, that it’d be worth it to try some name dropping, with Ms. Barasa. Y’know, to get us a bit closer to her, and possibly score ourselves some exclusive tickets to tonight’s soirée.”

“You’re toeing the line, here, Galahad.” David can almost hear Andrew seething on the other end of the line. “Don’t think I won’t make your life a misery if you keep testing me. Unfortunately, however, I do agree with you. Let’s try it—you have my blessing.” He audibly groans, and David has to bite his lip to stifle another giggle.

Eggsy is practically vibrating with glee, ignoring Andrew’s obvious displeasure. “So, how should we play this?” he asks David.

“Let me handle this,” David says smoothly, straightening his suit minutely in preparation for his meet and greet with the actress. “I’ve known Andrew a long time, it makes more sense that I make the connection.”

“Absolute tossers, the pair of you,” Andrew grumbles moodily, causing Eggsy to grin at David cheekily. 

“Well, shall we, then? I want to meet the movie star!” Eggsy says giddily, all but pushing David in the direction of the front of the room. “C’mon, before they start the sessions for the day.”

David rolls his eyes at Eggsy’s enthusiasm, but starts moving a bit more quickly all the same. Not _too_ quickly, mind: Robert Sutherland is not the kind of man who dances to anyone’s tune but his own.

*

**_Ten minutes later._ **

As it turns out, Oba is _lovely_. And, as predicted, she is more than willing to chat with them once she discovers that David is a good friend of Andrew’s. David is charming and polite—even with Hume grumbling unhappily in his ear, close at hand just in case David should say anything to embarrass him. Although, really, what can he do, from his desk chair at HQ in Scotland? It’s not like David is a robot that can be powered off at will. And David _absolutely_ plans to use that particular detail to his advantage.

“So, are the two of you coming to the party this evening?” Oba finally blurts, after ten long minutes of small talk. “I think it will be quite the event, especially for two environmentally conscious gentlemen like yourselves.” 

David’s eyes narrow minutely and he grins charmingly. _Bingo_. “There’s an event tonight? I certainly didn’t see anything on the itinerary. I thought all of this wrapped up just before dinner?”

“Oh yes,” she says, nodding enthusiastically. “For everyone else, it does. But the Duchess always has a bit of a farewell bash to send off her nearest and dearest. I’m sure I could get you in, if you’re interested?”

David meets Eggsy’s gaze, and cocks his shoulder as if asking him his opinion on the matter. It certainly won’t pay to be too hasty. They are so close, for the first time since they got here, to actually making some headway on this case. 

“I’m definitely in if you are, Rob. It sounds like just my kind of party,” Eggsy delivers, with his signature smooth grin well in place and a complimentary wink in toe.

“Fantastic! Oh, this will be so much fun!” Oba’s excitement is transcendent. She pauses and gives David an assessing glance. “Alright, boys, it’s settled then. I’ll make the call… but on one condition,” she states, raising a faux imperious eyebrow. 

David grins charmingly before acquiescing, “Alright then, I’m open to hearing your demands, lass.”

“Stories about Andrew. Anything you care to share with me, I’d be delighted to hear about. That man can be a steel drum on the best of days, and I would _love_ to know what he’s like with his friends.”

“For such a lovely lady?” David replies, arching his own eyebrow roguishly. “It would be my pleasure.”

It only takes a quick anecdote about Andrew repeatedly stabbing David with pins while he waxed poetic about the lovely colour of Oba’s eyes to have her laughing in delight and bringing out her phone to send off a quick message. She looks to be absolutely thrilled to know that Andrew has spoken of her, thought of her so highly, and that she drove him to such distraction that he stabbed his poor friend distressingly close to the family jewels. 

Pocketing her phone, Oba continues to laugh delightedly. “I didn't know the life of a kiltmaker was so fraught with danger! I must give Andrew more credit the next time I see him. I never realised how _up close and personal_ he would be with the clientele!”

David, preparing himself to dive headlong into yet another compromising tale with Hume moaning pitifully in his ear, is interrupted by a chirping noise coming from the mobile in Oba’s hand. 

“Excuse me just a moment, this must be my contact for the party tonight,” she says tapping to unlock the screen and check her messages. She stills for a few seconds, and her brow furrows in confusion. “Well, it seems like you fellas are all set for tonight, but you didn’t need my help after all. You were already on the list.”

“Oh?” David replies incredulously. _How did that happen? There’s no way we drew enough attention yesterday to somehow get ourselves invited to the party without knowing it._

“Oh, hells,” David hears Eggsy breathe the words out, before clearing his throat. “Probably my fault, I reckon. I sent a message to my ex-wife last night, to thank her for the recommendation to attend this conference. It looks like she might have taken it upon herself to get us invited to the party. She knows I’m always up for a good time,” he says with an apologetic half-shrug in David’s direction before directing a rakish wink at Oba. 

_Read: he reached out to her last night to see if she had contacts to get them into the party. Why in the ever loving feck didn’t he say anything? Honest to god, I could strangle him for the shite he pulls, sometimes._ David fumes silently to himself, glaring at his infuriating partner _._

Just then, a disembodied voice rings through the room, jarring David from his vengeful thoughts. “All conference attendees are kindly requested to take their seats. The current session will be commencing momentarily. Thank you.” 

“I suppose that’s our cue,” Eggsy says charmingly, reaching out to grasp Oba’s hand and kiss the back of it. “It has been an absolute pleasure to meet you, and I look forward to seeing you tonight at the Duchess’s party.”

“Get your hands off her, Galahad, you swine,” Hume’s voice hisses over what David can only assume is an open channel, if the amused quirk of Eggsy’s lips as he straightens from over Oba’s hand is anything to go by. 

“Such a charmer, you are,” she says chuckling. “Best not let Andrew catch you at that.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him, don’t you worry,” David says with an evil glint in his eye. “But likewise. It was such a pleasure meeting you.”

“So lovely,” she agrees, giving David a kiss on both cheeks before taking her leave to find a seat. 

“Well, that was a real treat,” Eggsy says, with a wicked grin. “Let’s find seats at the back, yeah?”

They make their way towards the back of the room, grabbing two seats near the coffee station, settling in for another long day of keynotes and feeling bad for the state of the planet. David turns his head to fix another glare at Eggsy, still miffed that he hasn’t even _bothered_ to tell him that he had contacted Tilde about tonight’s party. Eggsy, acting like he hasn’t got a care in the world, settles back comfortably in his seat with a pleased smirk on his face. _Fucker._

*

**_The Duchess of Somerset’s after-party. Garden Terrace, Hotel de Russie. 9 PM_ **

David stands in front of the mirror in the men’s room of the Hotel de Russie, checking his reflection closely, making sure his white tuxedo jacket is straight and sharp, and his hair still artfully mussed. He can hear the muffled chatter from the party through the doors and knows he should get back outside. He carefully steps away from the mirror and through the door, noise blooming as he makes his way back out into the brightly lit room. He ambles through the finely-dressed crowd, smiling and nodding charmingly as he manoeuvers himself back to the open doors to the garden, where shadows have now overtaken the last of the natural light.

He steps out onto the terrace where he left Eggsy and Oba chatting, less than fifteen minutes ago. He finds them more or less in the same position, with easy smiles on their faces, and still deep in conversation. David takes a moment to appreciate the strong line of Eggsy’s shoulders, framed perfectly by his grey velvet tuxedo jacket, the seams on the back leading the eye perfectly down to the sinful black trousers, making his gorgeous arse and thighs pop just in the right way. In other words, Eggsy’s looking every inch the flamboyant young tailor he is supposed to be—and to-die-for handsome in the process, too. 

_Focus, ya dafty. Not the time to moon over personal matters._

David listens to his own advice while he approaches the duo, and he’s easily and eagerly accepted back into the conversation about the delights of Rome that Oba has experienced so far.

“If you can stay a bit longer, I would absolutely recommend it,” she says, ardently. “There is just so much to see and do, so much history and _magic_.” Her eyes shine luminously in the low lighting of the candles on the terrace. 

Eggsy and David share an amused glance. “Magic, you say?” David says suggestively. He knows. He knows this city, and what it does to everyone who sets foot here. He’d fallen in love with it many years ago, and hasn’t stopped coming back since. “Did ye ever think of bringing our dear Andrew here for a bit of an escape?”

Oba giggles. “Oh, I would absolutely love to, but we haven’t been seeing each other all that long. Plus, it is absolute murder trying to get that man to commit to future dinner dates—let alone holiday plans. That, and my schedule is always a bit hectic, too. We’re just so busy, both of us. I had no idea the life of a kiltmaker was so manic! But I’m sure we’ll manage sooner or later.” She pauses and stares a bit wistfully out into the darkness. “It would be lovely to share this place with him.” 

David looks up, movement from the open balcony doors catching his eye. Three shadowy figures, backlit from the glare of the party inside, are making their way towards them. David keeps a wary eye trained on the approaching trio, eyes widening in recognition within just a few moments. He looks over to Eggsy and meets his gaze, indicating with a subtle tilt of his head to let him know they have newcomers approaching. Thankfully, David is saved from any further subtleties by Oba’s delighted exclamation and her hurried excuses to them before she rushes over to escort the party back to where Eggsy and David are standing.

Oba beams in delight at the woman to her right, arm linked elegantly through hers. “Robert, Gary, may I have the pleasure of introducing you to our amazing patroness, Isla Seymour, Duchess of Somerset?” She turns to face them, gesturing at both with a graceful hand. “Your Grace, this is Robert Sutherland, of Sutherland Engineering, and the former Prince Gary Unwin of Sweden.”

Both Eggsy and David bow to the Duchess as they are introduced. “Pleasure, ma’am,” they chorus.

The Duchess gives both of them a thoroughly scrutinizing look, haughty gaze sweeping them from head to toe. If David were a lesser man, this sort of behaviour would have him breaking out in a nervous sweat or reaching to fiddle with perfectly positioned cufflinks, but instead he calmly meets the woman’s cool stare, before deliberately lowering his gaze. 

“I’ve heard interesting things about both of you individually, over the last few days, and here I find you, thick as thieves, along with our lovely Oba. What a _fortuitous_ moment.” She flicks her eyes once again between them and then over to her two shadows. “My assistants, Ruby Thompson and Sir John Catesby. Please, do let them know if there is anything that we can do to make your experience this evening more enjoyable.”

David sees Eggsy move out of the corner of his eye, extending his hand for Catesby to shake. The dark-haired man, immediately looking quite taken with Eggsy’s appearance, gives him a leering once over and accepts the handshake, holding on perhaps a few moments too long. _Looks like Galahad has this one in the bag already_ , David thinks to himself with a smirk, before turning his attention back to the Duchess and the other two ladies. 

After five minutes of very pointed flirting from the young assistant—who looks nothing like a desk clerk, and more like he could be some kind of D&G model, really—Eggsy appears to draw the two of them back to the fold of conversation that is being held between David and the women. For his part, David has been regaling them with stories of his supposed business and how he realised that his passion was really for the environment, reaching deep into his university days to pull from long-forgotten classes about technical specifications of fuels and how they work, and of building motors and engines and figuring out ways to ply that towards greener ventures. He speaks at length about the money and time he is planning to invest in research, seeing Ruby’s keen gaze. It seems he’s finally caught her interest. 

Eggsy is just diving into a story about some event that he attended where there was a mishap between the Icelandic and Turkish Environment officials that ended in an all-out brawl, when the Duchess gently clears her throat. 

“Ah, forgive me for interrupting, Mr. Unwin. I only have a few moments before I’m needed back inside,” she says demurely, before turning to David. “I know we only touched oh so briefly on your own research, Mr. Sutherland, but I understand from our chat that your specialty is alternate sustainable fuel sources?” 

David nods. “Yes, indeed it is, ma’am.”

“Marvellous. I’d be very interested in reading some of your research and seeing what you have been up to in more detail,” she says, with a cool smile. Then, she waves over the statuesque redhead standing beside her. “Ruby here will take your information and discuss the relevant details.” 

“It will be my pleasure,” David responds, meeting the young woman’s appraising glance. _So close. Come on, David, you can do it._

“And Mr. Unwin,” the Duchess says, turning on a dime to address his partner smiling dangerously. “I am sorry that we haven’t had more time to speak. Her Royal Highness speaks so highly of you, and I was so pleased to hear that you had registered for our little conference. Hopefully we will be seeing you again at the next, or perhaps at some other event.” 

“Thank you, ma’am. Tilde also speaks very highly of you and your events. She had such a lovely time hosting you in Stockholm, and I’m terribly upset I had to miss that event—which is why I’m so chuffed that she insisted I make the time to come to Rome. And lucky enough, I managed to find my chum Robert here. It has been a quite lovely experience all-around,” Eggsy says, turning his charm up. “And thank you for having us, tonight, too. Such a lovely event. I am thrilled to have finally made your acquaintance,” he says taking the Duchess’ outstretched hand and dropping a kiss on the proffered fingers.

Yet another dark-haired suited man detaches himself from the shadows, coming over to escort the Duchess away, back into the hubbub of the brightly-lit room visible through the open patio doors. 

The younger set is left conversing on the shadowed veranda, trading stories of the conference and highlights of their adventures in Rome in the handful of spare moments they have had so far. 

David keys into the network and opens a channel with Hume. “ _If you have a wee second, we could use some assistance here—distracting your girlfriend_ ,” he delivers, quietly.

He feels Hume’s gusty sigh like a breeze up the nape of his neck, almost making him shiver in discomfort. “Do I have to do _everything_ for the two of you?” the quartermaster snarks back, but David can hear the muffled tapping in the background to indicate that he is working on something. David hears a mobile buzz to his right, and locks eyes with Oba, who is already guiltily rooting around in her clutch looking for the offending device. 

“Oh!” she exclaims softly looking at the screen in surprise, “I apologise, but I should take this. If you’ll excuse me a moment.” She takes her leave and disappears back through the open doors.

_Finally._

“So, tell me, Miss Thompson,” David starts, after a brief moment of quiet. “How are you enjoying working for the Duchess of Somerset? I can only imagine it is quite a whirlwind life, considering how busy she seems to be, all the time.”

“You have no idea,” she says, casting a reproachful eye over her colleague who seems to be making a total arse of himself with Eggsy. _Good. Very good. Keep at it, dumb pretty man._ “It’s always terribly busy, but incredibly rewarding. I couldn’t imagine working for anyone else.”

“I feel much the same way about my own work. It is difficult, frantic, but rewarding beyond all expectations—especially when it can be used to change people’s lives for the better.” David quips back, grinning broadly and taking a sip of wine. “I’m excited to create real change for us all.”

“Isn’t that why we’re all here?” she teases gently, touching his arm. _Fuck yes,_ David thinks before looking around for Eggsy, who... has already disappeared. _Well, that figures._

“Would you like to continue our chat somewhere a bit more private? It seems like our companions have already taken their leave, and I would love to speak to you some more about ways that Sutherland Engineering can assist your cause, Miss Thompson,” he says suggestively, voice rumbling in his chest, drawing a bit closer into Ruby’s personal space.

“Oh, just _Sutherland Engineering_ , then? Or is Robert Sutherland included in that deal?” she asks coyly, face inches from his and her sweet-smelling breath ghosting over his lips. 

“For you, love, he can definitely be included,” he replies, delicately brushing her sharp jawline with the back of his hand.

Ruby grabs his hand and starts tugging gently. “Come on, then. I know a perfect place,” she says smiling over her shoulder.

David lets himself be drawn away into the night. _Mission accomplished, it seems._

*

**_Nijinsky Suite, Hotel de Russie, Rome. 10:24 PM_ **

In many ways, Ruby Thompson is everything David usually looks for in a woman. She has gorgeous blue-green eyes that light up when she smiles; a sweet, tender disposition and a lovely sense of humour, but also a spark of something that makes him want to learn everything about her—even, quite surprisingly, beyond the scope of his mission; a slender, mermaid-like figure, so perfectly hugged by the black cocktail dress she’s wearing; fiery red hair, impeccably coiffed to create some gorgeous beachy waves, the kind of hair that is long enough to loop around his hand once or twice and pull on—

“Mr. Sutherland?” Ruby calls out, from somewhere in the vicinity of where David’s standing, but out of view, interrupting David’s train of thought. “Do you smoke?”

“Only when I’m on holiday, my dear,” David replies, making his way through the small, impeccably decorated living room in the direction of Ruby’s voice. A few seconds later, she seemingly pops out of nowhere, wearing a cosy-looking gold-coloured shawl around her shoulders and a bright grin on her beautiful face.

“Grand. Looks like we’ve got the same pretext for our bad habits, then,” she says, winking knowingly as she walks up to meet him under the door frame that leads to the suite’s rooftop terrace.

David bites his lip and raises an eyebrow, then tilts his head slightly to the left as he looks at her intensely, in a way that he hopes fully conveys how attracted he is to her. For once, even if he is on a mission, he doesn’t have to fake it in the slightest. “Oh. Hadn’t realised how much of a naughty girl you were, Miss Thompson.”

She smirks appreciatively. “You have no idea. Actually, speaking of bad habits—would you be a _darling_ and pour us a nightcap?” she asks, all posh and proper but also almost imperceptibly pursing her lips. David nods, and observes her smile widen before she steps over the threshold to the terrace and starts weaving between the different chairs there, seemingly looking for the perfect spot. 

David can’t help but notice that she’s barefoot, her hair is looser—the butterfly-shaped diamond hairpin that held the front of it in place is gone—and that she must have refreshed her perfume, because she smells strongly of something that reminds David of a Sunday morning spent on clean sheets and between someone’s legs. _Oh, she knows what she’s doing, alright._

He turns and walks back into the living room, where he easily locates a display of bottles on a small, round, antique table. Everything on there looks expensive, but one bottle in particular catches his eye: one that is very familiar, and for a very good reason. Not deliberating too much, David plucks the Glenglassaugh 50-year out of its stand, pops the cork, and pours himself a generous straight dram, and one on the rocks for Ruby—always a guessing game, how other people take their whisky, but this time he’s got an inkling he’s right—then puts it back, if only a bit reluctantly. 

Walking back towards the terrace, he gets a faint whiff of Scotch from the glasses and he’s momentarily catapulted back in time. And not to the few occasions when he’s toasted a fallen agent, either, but to that night in the Cairngorms. Laughing near a toasty campfire, exchanging life stories. The flames dancing on Eggsy’s sharp features. His soft, benevolent gaze. That was the moment when—

“Oh, gosh, Mr. Sutherland, you’re a _treasure_!” Ruby squeals, excitedly, as she sees him approach holding what she obviously recognises as whisky. “I didn’t even tell you what I wanted. Do you read minds?”

 _Oh, love, just_ some _minds. Definitely not yours—it would be so much easier if I could read yours. And they definitely wouldn’t be paying me as much for it._

David gracefully hands her the glass with the ice cubes in, and she smiles fondly up at him from the settee she’s lounging on. It’s a small one, made for two people, and she’s got her long legs on the free spot next to her. David takes that as a sign he should find himself another seat.

“You just look like you would enjoy a good Scotch. And this one’s the best I’ve ever had,” he says, nonchalantly, as he’s settling on a luscious-looking white armchair and undoing the first button in his shirt with his left hand. He then tugs a little on his bow tie to loosen it and glances in Ruby’s direction to check her reaction, and he can very easily tell by the way her lips are parted and her gaze is a bit absent that she’s been rather unapologetically staring at him and his extremely well-practiced moves. _Bingo_.

She’s got a crystal ashtray in her lap, and a lit cigarette between the index and middle finger of her left hand. There’s this insouciant, chic air about her. She’s clearly interested, but holding herself back somehow—and that’s making David want to score even more. It’s almost a chemical reaction, at this point. Eyes on the prize and all that, of course, but also: _Queen and country_ are all well and good, but this isn’t fucking MI6. A man has needs.

David smirks and leans a little more in her direction, raising his glass in a toast. “ _Slàinte_ , Miss Thompson.”

She smiles broadly at him and raises her own glass in response, then brings it to her lips. After a brief sip, she says, “You can call me Ruby, Mr. Sutherland. And what do I call you?”

“Just Rob is fine, love— _Ruby_ ,” he adds, correcting himself, almost as an afterthought (but not really, he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing), gratefully acknowledging the further level of intimacy that she’s conceding him.

"Rob. Like my big brother,” she muses, swirling her drink around, making the ice cubes clink against the sides. “You know, you actually remind me of him a little bit."

David ponders that for a second, and wishes he could communicate with someone to ask for a second opinion. _Did this girl really just put the moves on me and then tell me I remind her of her_ brother _?_

He briefly flicks through his personal catalogue of possible reactions and opts for ‘surprised and intrigued’. One raised eyebrow, lower lip against the rim of his glass, teeth sheathed—just the littlest bit. "Oh? And what's your big brother like?"

"Handsome, like you. Except he doesn't know it,” she delivers, confidently, leaving the obvious _unlike you_ completely silent as she takes a deep drag off her cigarette, hollow cheeks and sharp cheekbones delicately highlighted by the pale moonlight and the gold glimmer of the lit candle rested on the coffee table between them. “Also,” she continues, after a brief pause, “he's got the same big, sad blue eyes you have. What are you sad about, Rob?” she asks, shifting a little in her seat to look at him better. _Scrutinise_ would be a better word for it, actually. 

David feels seen, in a way he doesn’t _like_ being seen. He conceals the ickiness with a smirk. 

“Not sad at all, love. I’m drinking the best Scotch money can buy, on a warm evening in the Eternal City, with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. How could I be sad?”

She gives him a half smile, not acknowledging his compliment. “Something’s still troubling you, though,” she asserts, getting her feet back on the ground in a swift movement and crushing her cigarette in the ashtray, now on the coffee table next to the candle. “What are you thinking of, Rob?" 

She bats her lashes, rests her elbows on her knees. Leans in. Those eyes—icy as a crisp December morning.

David realises he’s not as into this as he’d thought he’d be, after all. _Not to worry._ He quickly reverts back to scripted-honeypot mode, then—because that’s what he’s good at.

"I'm thinking of how much I'd like to be kissing you, right now," he delivers, smoothly, with a smirk and the slightest raise of an eyebrow. He blinks. Once. He’s playing coy. Key word: _playing_.

Something in Ruby’s expression shifts: it’s like he just flipped a switch, somehow. She’s completely under his spell.

“Is that right, Rob?” she asks, obviously wanting to sound cheeky and flirtatious, but her voice is weak. As if her throat was very dry.

It takes David exactly two seconds to gracefully glide through the small space between them, sit next to her and lean in to whisper in her ear, in a low, husky tone, over-exaggerating Robert Sutherland’s already quite thick Scottish brogue. “Very much so, my dear.”

Her kiss is as ethereal as she is, her lips like rose petals, her perfume inebriating, her skin so smooth and soft under David’s fingertips. David is gentle with her. Extremely gentle, in fact, not allowing his hands to roam more than strictly necessary, delicately cupping her jaw to deepen the kiss and resting his other palm on her bent knee. After a few seconds, however, as their tongues meet, she makes a small noise—and David knows he’s won. 

It all escalates pretty quickly from there: she pushes him back against the settee, hikes her skirt up a bit and straddles him as she kisses him again, with renewed fervour. When he hesitates for a beat, she grabs his wrists and puts his hands on her hips, enabling him to do what he’s been wanting to do ever since they’ve been alone.

She grinds on him, sending sparks flying all over his body, from his already growing semi to his every nerve ending. Then, she gets a hand into his hair, deep in his carefully styled curls, and tugs on them lightly. David groans rather theatrically, at that—and it’s not all part of his act, either. They part, and he opens his eyes: she’s staring back at him with fire in her eyes and a wicked smile. 

“Wanna fuck, Rob?” she asks, surprisingly simply, as she tugs on David’s hair a bit more, tilting his head backwards and exposing his Adam’s apple. He feels exposed, vulnerable, in the hands of this surprising woman. He _loves_ it.

“Do ye kiss yer mother with that mouth, Miss Thompson?”

She grins against his lips as she kisses him again, _shut up, you fool_ , and David concludes that the answer might well be yes. They make out for a while, David allowing himself to touch and pinch and grab a bit more, grinding back against her until he’s achingly hard and completely out of breath. When the kiss is once again broken, Ruby just looks at him, red hair dishevelled and wild, pupils dilated and dark. Eager. Expectant. Still waiting for an answer.

David raises an eyebrow at her, then caresses her cheek with the back of his hand. He can feel her struggle not to lean into his touch.

“I’d like that very much, gorgeous. Here?” he dares, cheekily.

Ruby shakes her head and chuckles lightly. “Bed.”

David thinks about asking for permission for a second, but then decides against it: it’s always so much more impressive when he manages to surprise them. He pulls Ruby closer to himself—strong grip just underneath one buttock, his other hand clutching one of her shoulders for stability—then he gets up from his seat, indulgently pausing for a bunch of seconds to kiss her again, just holding her and hearing her gasp in astonishment, a noise he knows to mean _fuck, you’re strong_ , a noise that makes him feel so damn good about himself—

“Bed,” she says again, mid-kiss, adjusting herself better so she can hold on to him properly. “Want you.”

The walk back into the room is effortlessly smooth, and the landing of Ruby’s lithe body on the mattress almost completely noiseless—apart from the small whimper of pleasure she lets out when David climbs on top of her, discarding his five-grand jacket and letting Ruby pull him in by the sides of his loose bow tie, laughing into yet another kiss.

When his hand makes his way along her thigh and under her dress, he lands a string of butterfly kisses on her neck and moves down along her collarbone, revelling in the drunken, aroused giggles that he manages to tear out of her, but especially in the fact that she seems to be wearing absolutely no underwear.

“Miss Thompson,” he growls, gently biting the side of her neck and smiling against her skin, “you really _are_ a naughty girl.” He feels her hopelessly squirm underneath him as he moves his hand upwards, sprawls his palm on her flat belly. He comes up to look at her again: she’s dishevelled, flustered, _gorgeous_. 

“God,” Ruby moans, in a small whisper.

“Nah, love: just me,” David replies, his face now closer to hers, lips millimetres from touching, teasing.

He goes in for the kill, then: his gaze is planted on hers when he slowly, slowly, _slowly_ starts moving his hand south. He sees Ruby’s mouth open in ecstasy at what looks like the mere anticipation of having his fingers, his cock, _something_ inside her. It’s addictive, so beautifully validating, and he can’t wait to—

A loud, piercing noise all but breaks the spell in the supercharged atmosphere of the quiet bedroom. 

He feels Ruby roll her hips into his hand as she groans in frustration. “Fuck. Fuck, sorry, I’m…” she tries to let out, but has to cut herself off when David's thumb surreptitiously skims over her clit for the briefest moment.

“Do you really need to get that, gorgeous?” he asks, low and seductive, as he presses the pad of his thumb further in, feeling how wet she is, and doing his best not to look too smug about it.

She hesitates, David can see it. “I…” The phone keeps buzzing and ringing. David keeps circling her clit. “I… ugh, fuck,” she groans, reaching for the phone. She looks at it briefly, then slams it on the mattress and buries her face in her hands. She inches back, away from him, away from his touch. “I do, I do need to take this. Sorry, be right back.” She swiftly gets off the bed, picks up her phone from the bedside table, then locks herself in the ensuite.

“Fuck,” David echoes, out loud but hushed. _So fucking close._

It’s definitely not about the sex at all, though, and he knows it very well—which is why he takes advantage of the brief, unexpected hiatus that his anticipated steamy night seems to have gone on to readjust himself, step off the bed, and fumble with the settings in the neural network to heighten his hearing as he leans into the hard wood door, listening in on Ruby’s call.

“Two men, they said?” Ruby sounds very alarmed. “Thirtysomething? Handsome?” _Flattering. But also, fuck—have we been found out?_

David turns on infra-red vision and gets eyes on Ruby inside the lavish bathroom. She looks distraught, angry. Her free hand is closed into a fist.

“And you’re absolutely sure, yeah?” she asks, through clenched teeth.

Another long silence follows, during which David wrecks his brain to try and figure out how, when or where they could possibly have given themselves away. He comes up short.

“Alright, thank you, George. Yes, I will talk to the Duchess about that pay raise she promised you: this is definitely worth it. Good night, George.”

David watches Ruby close the call, clutch the phone to her chest, and breathe out rather theatrically. She’s now looking directly at the door—directly at David, even though she is unaware of it. She looks, in a word, _dangerous_.

He backs away from the door, quickly loosening his tie completely and undoing another couple of buttons in the process, in the hope to appear enticing enough for this femme fatale to disregard the obvious word of warning she just received about him (and Eggsy, he assumes) and sleep with him all the same. And then, maybe, also _talk_. As in, give him something more than flirtatious banter and lustful looks, something actually useful to the mission—since it’s what he’s here for, after all. Lest he forget.

When she emerges from the bathroom, he’s sitting on the side of the bed with his legs slightly spread and his phone in his hands, pretending to be extremely interested in the Mr. Porter Instagram page. He artfully waits a couple of beats to raise his head and actually acknowledge her presence.

“Awrite, beautiful?” he tries, reaching to take her hand and place a delicate kiss on her knuckles. He keeps firm eye contact while he does so; he just blinks a couple of times, for the added benefit of eyelash fluttering.

Although Ruby seems to be enjoying what she’s seeing, David can feel it: she’s not buying this. Not even a little bit.

“All good. There was a… situation, at the party. Bit frustrating, since it involves details I personally had arranged to what I thought was perfection. But it’s being handled.” She gives him a small smile, and slowly retracts her hand from his loose grasp.

_Fuck. Come on, David. All is not lost, you can do it._

“Glad tae hear it,” he replies, standing up and stepping close to her, getting way into her space. He gets a strand of fiery hair out of her face, tucks it behind her ear. “Where were we, then?”

In response, Ruby smiles sweetly up at him, purses her lips, leans into his touch, and for a second David thinks he’s won. As he bends down to kiss her, however, she inches back. “How about another drink, Rob?

As he is struck with the final bit of realisation that sex definitely isn’t on the table for tonight, David tries not to look or sound too crestfallen. “Always a good idea, my dear. Same again?”

She shakes her head, mischief in her eyes. “Let me surprise you. Please, go back outside, I won’t be a minute,” she says, planting a soft, fleeting kiss on his lips that has him momentarily, idiotically hopeful again.

He steps out on the balcony and huffs, stressed and frustrated. He barely has the time to gather his thoughts and formulate an idea into his mind when mission control suddenly chimes in through the network.

_Abort mission, Wallace. Do not take that drink._

David plops back down onto the balcony settee and snorts. _Wasn’t going to. But I’m not going to abort—reckon I can still get something from her._

Mission control sets an orange blinking light in the corner of his eye: that usually means ‘stand by, need to escalate this’. That, in turn, usually means that Andrew is on the clock in the wings—the poor man, David wonders if he ever sleeps.

Just as he sees Ruby step out again, holding two tall glasses full to the brim with ice cubes and a clear liquid, David witnesses the light turn green. He knows it’s Andrew, this time, because the message says: _Be careful, David._

 _Yes, dad_ , he sends back, smiling broadly at Ruby, who’s finally by his side and is handing him one of the glasses. He looks at the drink: quite possibly gin and tonic, fancy peppercorns and berries floating on the top—and definitely, _definitely_ spiked with something. 

“Narcotic”, Andrew confirms, now talking quietly into his ear. “I’m activating your inhibitors—just wait ten seconds before you take a drink, then you should be good to go.”

David sings Ruby’s praises for a wee bit, complimenting her on the presentation and the gin choice (something from Islay, only slightly mainstream); when he gets the all-clear from Andrew, he clinks glasses with her and takes a sip. It tastes like Scotland. As predicted, the narcotic is blocked by his in-built inhibitors, and he feels absolutely fine. _Thank fuck Andrew is a genius, really._

David decides not to address how weird it is that they’re sitting outside again, when a mere five minutes ago he had a hand up Ruby’s skirt and she was falling apart under his touch: he makes polite conversation instead, hoping the strong spirit will eventually do the work for him.

He has to go on delivering the well-rehearsed lie about his job and his company, heavily leaning into his actual engineering studies and pulling a series of complicated concepts and words out of his hat, hoping he’ll leave her baffled or awestruck enough that she won’t ask any follow-up questions. 

Amazingly, annoyingly, she seems to get _everything_ —and rather effortlessly, too.

 _She’s definitely more than a PA, mate_ , he quickly types to Andrew when Ruby is taking a drink. _I’m risking it._

“So, tell me, dove—what d’ye _really_ think of this whole operation that yer boss is pushing?”

She gives him a quizzical look, and a half smile. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—you seem tae have a deep understanding of the actual science behind it,” he observes, realising how patronising he sounds only after the words are out of his mouth. _Ah, fuck it. Let’s go all the way, now._ “Doesnae this whole thing seem a bit too good to be true? Tech that can cleanse the planet? That isnae a real thing, in my book.”

Ruby purses her lips and frowns. Her gaze is hard, angry—and then there’s the sound of broken glass.

David looks down, dumbfounded, to see a damp patch on her dress and shards of glass everywhere—even, he realises in horror, inside her clenched fist. No blood, though. He wants to ask Andrew if he’s seen what just happened, too, or if he’s officially lost his marbles, but he doesn’t get the chance: he’s too busy trying to make sense of this almost celestial-looking woman breaking a heavy tumbler glass by just clenching it a little too tightly. He’s never seen anything like it. _Something doesn’t add up, alright._

He can read it in her eyes that she knows she’s fucked up; his suspicion is immediately confirmed when, before he gets to drop a genuine ‘what the fuck was that?’, she gets up, mindlessly stepping on broken glass, barefoot, and not even flinching. She settles in front of him, bends over, grabs him by the collar of his shirt, and effortlessly lifts him up. 

“You really shouldn’t have seen that. I’m afraid this is goodbye, Mr. Sutherland.”

_Fuck. Fuck. Hume, bit of help?_

A red dot immediately appears on the right side of Ruby’s cleavage. David looks down at it, relieved, and she immediately follows his gaze. When he looks up at her face again, resolution is painted on it. David tries pushing her away, getting his feet back up on the ground, but she’s quicker: she hurls him backwards, making him fly for a good five metres, until the back of his head hits the stone railing of the rooftop terrace, and everything goes dark.

When he comes to, all his fingertips are buzzing, possibly in the desperate effort to trigger any kind of reaction into him. Also, Andrew is practically shouting in his ears.

“Mmh…” David groans, massaging the back of his head and wincing in pain. “M'here.”

“David! Thank God.” Andrew sounds very relieved, if a bit shaken still.

“What the fuck happened?” David asks, incredulous, coming to a sitting position and slowly turning his head left and right, in the ridiculous hope that Ruby might be anywhere to be seen. Of course, she isn’t. “How the _fuck_ did she do that?”

“Not sure yet,” Andrew replies. “She seems to be strong. And I’m not talking weightlifting, here: this is outright ridiculous. Superhuman.”

“This isnae a fecking Marvel movie, chief.”

Andrew scoffs. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly sound, scientific explanation to all this. The result, anyways, is that you got your arse kicked and that we got absolutely nothing out of this entire thing.”

“Hey, hey—oh fuck, that hurt,” David tries to protest, getting back on his feet and massaging his sore skull. His head is spinning a wee bit, so he decides to sit down. “The mission was botched since she got that phone call. Someone must’ve told on us—or Galahad must’ve pulled one of his fecking reckless stunts when I wasn’t looking. I don’t know what happened, Hume, but we got busted. She was never gunnae sleep with me, nor blab about the Duchess’s _real_ operation.”

Andrew sighs. “I know, Wallace. I’ve been listening in for a while, and I’m afraid your assessment is correct. Except, I have no fucking clue how that happened, or who might have spilled the beans: it certainly wasn’t Galahad—who, you’ll probably be happy to hear, seems to be doing pretty well for himself. Merlin tells me radio silence from him during a honeypot is always a good sign, and Galahad turned off all comms forty-five minutes ago.”

That, somehow, hits David square in the gut. He thinks it might be something to do with crippling shame on his own apparently rather rusty skills, inadequacy; Galahad scored, David didn’t—and that’s just fucking embarrassing for a self-proclaimed honeypot master, really. 

“Well done, Galahad,” he says, wryly. “Did anyone manage tae get the girl? Or did she get away?”

“She’s disappeared, I’m afraid. I’ve got a few people looking for her inside the hotel, but I’m pulling them out in ten minutes, I think: she’s clearly not there anymore. And, Wallace, I reckon it’s time for you to call it a night as well. Get back to the hotel. I’ll let Galahad know you can’t make the rendezvous, so he doesn’t get alarmed.”

“No,” David grunts. “I’ll wait faer him,” he declares, resolutely. (Not quite sure why, either.)

“Very well,” Andrew sighs. He knows not to fight David when he’s pissed off, and David really appreciates that. “D’you need medical to check on you, while you wait?”

“Nae, ‘m awrite, ta. Just goin’ for a wee drive, I think.”

“Just make sure you’re not seen, eh?”

“Oh you mean, I’ve got to sneak around? Like a _spy_? Wow, chief—really not sure I can pull that one off,” David delivers, biting back. _Really not the time to baby me, Andrew._

“Fuck off, David. I just want you safe, is all.”

“Fuck off right back, Andrew: I’ll be okay.” He walks back into the bedroom, then briefly checks himself in a mirror: his hair is a bit of a mess, his eyes are still wide in mild shock, and he looks like he’s just seen a ghost—but other than that, he’s perfectly fine. “Right, I’m off,” he announces. “Just let me know when Galahad is, um... _finished_ , will ye?”

“Ah, but I’m signing off as well, old chum. I’ll have one of mine keep you posted on Galahad’s status.”

“Good night, chief. Thanks for saving my arse, yet again.”

“It’s my job, David. But you’re very welcome. I’ll keep in touch with the details for your extraction, tomorrow morning. Good night, David.”

Fifteen minutes later see David back in his rented Aston Martin and miles away from the Russie. He briefly considered putting on some music, but he quickly realised it would do nothing to drown the deafening noise of his thoughts—so he embraced them. His thoughts, and the sound of Rome on a Friday night in spring, rolling in with the wind from his open car windows.

He’s enraged, and he’s hurt. It’s his ego, his professionalism, his immaculate track record taking a major hit, here—but also, he realises, there’s something else. There’s the knowledge that Eggsy, on the other hand, most likely made it. He did his job, he did it well, and he’s also probably getting a reward shag for his troubles. 

Eggsy. That’s where the problem lies. _Eggsy_. 

David’s _jealous_ , and he’s hurt.

He drives by the Circus Maximus and parks the car near the entrance of the communal rose garden. He gets out, strolls up to the gate, and inhales the strong smell of the glorious May blooms—all colours and shapes, from all around the world. This is one of his favourite places in the city; one that needs to be shared with someone special.

Tonight, however, it’s just him. David Budd, a ridiculous Bond car, and his first cigarette in six months. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL. That was a ~~missed~~ ride and a half, wasn't it?
> 
> To answer a few obvious questions:  
> \- yes, Ruby/Skye is genetically modified, and very, very dangerous;  
> \- no, this _still_ ain't that kinda movie, bruv;  
> \- yes, while all this Budd débacle was happening, Eggsy was absolutely shagging the posh boy;  
> \- and yes, _of course_ you'll get to read all about it in the next installment.
> 
> And for a final bit of admin: starting from the next chapter M is stepping out of the ship, at least for the time being. She'll be sorely missed <3  
> Last but not least, since life is manic and work has picked up again, I'm moving to an update every two weeks. I know it's cruel, but I absolutely need TIME to bring this craziness to you all, and to make it absolutely perfect if I can. I know you'll understand. <3
> 
> I hope you enjoyed Spy Boys being back. We're getting to the end of this together, baby.
> 
> Take care, and see you in two short short weeks.
> 
> Love,
> 
> C xx


	14. XI. Ignis et Nix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is this even allowed?” Eggsy teases, because he can. “A Baronet on his knees for a common tailor?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks is a long time to wait, on both sides, but here we are again—because, dammit, I keep my promises.
> 
> The context for this chapter is that I am in stupid love with stupid Wolf Boy Kit Harington, and that his stupid ass is way too stupidly magnificent for me not to go on about it for way too long... and have you guys along for the ride, of course
> 
>  **[This week's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5X6b8n53DuMemwsbUj0zqB?si=VRf0fXnZQyyq0ex_B8rGsg)** isn't arguably super duper inspired, but it's filled with dumbass sex tunes. Hope you'll enjoy it :D
> 
> As for the chapter itself, well. Y'all got the jist of what this is going to be: Eggsy, scoring on his honeypot. Pure and simple. No traps, none at all, not one, whatsoever. Just fun, a spot of very good alcohol, and sex. Am I lying to you right now? Well. There's only one way to find out, now, isn't there?
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> P.S.: the number of gratuitous and absolutely idiotic _Thrones_ references you'll find in here is very, very high. Starting from the chapter title. Yeah.
> 
> P.P.S.: HUGE TRIGGER WARNING for hard drugs in here. I have updated the tags but, you know, just in case you hadn't taken a look at those. Let's just say that John... likes his snow. (Wow, this is even worse written down than it sounded in my mind. Very well. Let's carry on.)

_**XI. Ignis et Nix** _

**_Valadier Suite, Hotel de Russie, Rome. 10:17 PM_ **

As Eggsy is closing the heavy penthouse suite door behind him with his foot and smiling into the seemingly endless makeout session that started way back when the doors of the lift closed on the ground floor, he finds himself thinking that tonight, for the first time in months, might well be his lucky night.

Ideally—as Eggsy’s preferences for one-night-stands normally go—John Catesby would be a debonair fortysomething, recently divorced man with salt and pepper hair and an irreprensible urge to bend Eggsy over and give him what he’s clearly been craving. And calling him a good boy while he’s at it, if at all possible.

Alternatively, as recent history has proven, Eggsy would be equally as chuffed for John Catesby to magically turn out to just be David Budd wearing an elaborate high-tech disguise, that he would then proceed to strip out of, in order to, ugh, _make love_ to him. 

(And he’d probably like it to be more than a one-night-stand, in that case. He’d have David twice, five times over. He’d fall asleep, then start over. He’d have David for as long as David would have him, really.)

Instead, John Catesby is rather short (but _incredibly fit_ ), remarkably dim, stupidly posh, and even more stupidly gorgeous. It’s the kind of attractiveness one sort of feels bad falling for, because it feels like a trap, it’s so goddamn easy: big brown eyes that somehow tell a million and a half stories, luscious plump lips and long, dark curls that Eggsy wants to spend the whole night pulling on. So tempting. But also way, way too easy. 

As if that wasn’t enough, approximately thirty seconds into a really heated kiss with the promise of actual sex happening in the near future (imagine that), John Catesby turns out to _also_ tick all the boxes as far as Roxy’s theory on there being a very specific category of posh boys who look all proper on the outside, but are absolutely filthy behind closed doors.

This last detail was admittedly not hard at all for Eggsy to work out: possibly something about the way Catesby spontaneously backed up against the mirrored lift wall while seductively biting on his lower lip and pulling Eggsy in with him by the lapels of his tux jacket, then leaned in to whisper _I want you_ in Eggsy’s ear, Eggsy supposes. Also, very likely related to the way the man hasn’t stopped kissing Eggsy for more than ten seconds on end, and, when he did, he just doubled down on the needy, bottom-y act (that Eggsy immediately knew wasn’t just an _act_ , but a way of life), by letting that pretty mouth of his run loose and detailing the series of quite frankly unspeakable things he’d want Eggsy to do to him. 

(Well. Catesby didn't put it quite that nicely, actually. He didn't say _please_ , or beg in any way that would be befitting a good, compliant bottom. He just sort of explained what was going to happen— _told_ Eggsy what he wanted, not bothering to ask. Befitting the entitled prick he is, one would argue.) 

Trying to focus on the present moment and not what he _wishes_ the present moment was, Eggsy takes it upon himself to initiate the pinning-to-the-door action he’s ached for ever since his last encounter with Harry; by the sound Catesby makes when Eggsy efficiently and effortlessly shifts both Catesby’s wrists over his head and keeps them pressed against the immaculate wood with one hand, and the way the man looks up at him, Eggsy knows he’s got it right. He’s going to have to put on his dominant act, tonight.

 _Well, if these ridiculously tight suit trousers he’s wearing are anything to go by_ , Eggsy muses to himself, pushing Catesby’s legs open with one of his thighs and feeling the man’s erection attempting to drill a hole in his quad, _I reckon his arse won’t be a half bad place to spend a few hours in._

“Mmhfuck,” Catesby moans into the kiss, writhing against Eggsy’s firm grip on both his wrists and grinding into Eggsy’s thigh even further. He then mumbles something else, inarticulate as he can be with Eggsy’s tongue taking stock of the inside of his mouth, and Eggsy gets the hint. Stops kissing him for a beat, focuses on his face: flushed cheeks, kiss-swollen lips, dilated pupils. _Fuck_. He’s a vision. He’s so, so hot, he’s—

_Not David._

_Oh, shut up and focus._

Eggsy smiles and raises an eyebrow at Catesby. “Beg your pardon, gorgeous?” he asks, smooth and seductive, while stroking one of Catesby’s cheeks with the back of his hand, feeling the impossible softness of his long beard.

“I want to suck you off,” Catesby replies, breathless but with unmistakeable resolution and still that infuriating entitlement in his voice and attitude. “Been thinking about it all night.”

“Is that right?” Eggsy purrs back, a single jolt of electricity that he really can’t control making its way down his spine and all the way to his cock. It twitches in renewed interest at the promise of those lips wrapped around it—oh those _lips_ that look so much like…

_Stop it. Stop. It._

Catesby nods, and Eggsy smiles wickedly down at him.

“I would like that very much, Sir Catesby,” Eggsy replies, reverent and polite—he suspects this man gets off on social rank and being recognised as _better_ , in any kind of way possible.

He’s right. Catesby’s eyes twinkle and his mouth falls open in lust-stricken awe. “My oh my, aren’t you just _perfect_ ,” he muses out loud, pushing himself off the door and spinning round, walking backwards into the room and pulling Eggsy in by the lapels of his luscious velvet tux. “It’s just John for you, though. Alright?”

Eggsy’s gaze is permanently fixed on John’s as he nods in assent and only barely resists to push him back against a wall to show him who’s really in charge. He’s not stupid: he’s painfully aware that, even if John is positively gagging to get on Eggsy’s dick, John also needs to be the one calling all the shots. Eggsy knows, he _knows_ that dynamic: it’s what _he_ loves to do. It’s his brand, too.

They walk out of the entrance corridor and into a fancy living room, lights low and just the right atmosphere for whatever’s about to happen. John all but bossily pushes Eggsy down on a baroque cream-coloured couch and immediately straddles him, lips connecting again, John grinding into Eggsy as he gets rid of his tux jacket and throws it on a nearby chair. Eggsy melts into it for a bit, the sensation of being desired and having a beautiful man on top of him—just not quite in the way he’d have liked, but that’s going to have to be put out of his mind. He has to be in control now. Hence, for the umpteenth time in his life, he has to think of his mantra: _what would Harry Hart do?_

He realises he’s spaced out for a second when he focuses back on John, and John turns out to have discarded his tie and undone his crisp white shirt, and now he appears to be flexing his ridiculous six-pack and jutting out his perfectly round, hairless pecs for Eggsy’s eyes only, clearly waiting for him to say something—and fuck, isn’t he _delicious_ , all pale skin and chiselled muscle. Irresistible, even. _Like I apparently was, back in the day_.

“Would you look at you, John,” Eggsy complies, appreciatively running the tips of his fingers all over John’s naked front and only slightly lingering on both his nipples in turn, experimentally pinching to see if it’ll get some kind of reaction off John (it does). He then remembers something that Harry used to tell him, what feels like an age ago. “You could have anyone you want, d’you know that?”

“Oh, I _do_ ,” the absolute arsehole quips back, arching a little into Eggsy’s touch to make Eggsy’s palm adhere to his rock-hard abs. “But tonight, I chose you.”

 _Lucky me_ , Eggsy thinks—only half-sarcastically, because as much as he does hate John’s attitude, the Hellenic statue of a body that’s currently emerging out of a tailored shirt before his very eyes is not something he’d ever deem himself _unlucky_ to be looking at.

“Seems I’m a very lucky man,” Eggsy then states, hands coming up to trace the outline of John’s hard, defined deltoids and arms. John leans in to catch Eggsy’s lips once again, smiling into the kiss.

“Yes, you most definitely are,” he agrees, biting Eggsy’s lower lip, then pushing him flush to the back of the couch once again. He then gets up and backs slightly away from where Eggsy’s sitting, never breaking eye contact as he kicks off his shoes and undoes his belt and slowly, seductively peels off his suit trousers to reveal more toned, immaculate, _hairless_ skin and his very obvious erection, barely concealed by, _fuck_ , what distinctly looks like a black jockstrap.

Eggsy’s doubts are confirmed as John spins round and struts towards a nearby table, purposefully bending over more than strictly necessary—Eggsy just gathers this by the rather striking view he gets of John’s actual arsehole (bleached, of course, duh, he should have suspected it)—to pour what he assumes is whisky in two glasses, adding a spherical ice cube in each and swirling them around in both his hands.

 _The amount of times I’ve worn stuff like this for Harry_ , he can’t help but think. And now, the thought of squeezing back into one for D—

_Fuck off, no. No, it’s not happening, leave it alone._

“Here, let’s loosen you up a bit,” John says, handing Eggsy a glass as he sips from his. “I guarantee, this is the best Scotch you’ll _ever_ have.”

Eggsy smiles and raises his glass in a small toast, before taking a sip of it and— _Christ_ , it simply can’t be. He knows fuck all about whisky, whiskey, brandy, cognac, you name it, spirits are a big fat mystery to him, but he _does_ know this particular one, and although it feels a tad too ex machina to be true, he has to ask.

“ _Glenglassaugh_ 50-year?” 

John smiles against the rim of his glass, visibly impressed. “Wow. Yes, that’s exactly right. Should I keep you, Mr. Unwin?” he contemplates, out loud, walking up to the couch once again and settling between Eggsy’s spread legs. 

Eggsy puts on autopilot—hands on John’s butt, smacking the taut skin lightly as he mouths John’s cock through the thin cotton of his jock, making John moan obscenely, and finally looking up at him, past the hills of his abs and into his dark, serious eyes. 

“I don’t know, John—should you?” he retorts, ignoring his loud thoughts and planting a soft kiss on John’s hipbone that has John buck his hips into Eggsy’s touch.

“I guess we’ll find out,” John says, condescending as ever, tangling his fingers in Eggsy’s hair and pulling him slightly away from himself, back to his original position. He then sets his glass on the ground and kneels in front of Eggsy, pushing his legs apart a tad more still and immediately going for his belt.

Eggsy quickly realises there’s no fondness, no real purpose that is the result of overwhelming chemical attraction, in John’s actions: it’s all just scratching an itch, for him. He clearly gets off on dressing like a slut for powerful-looking men and having them come undone in front of him. It’s not about them, and therefore it’s not about Eggsy, either: it’s all about him. Hang the dynamic of sheer reverence that Eggsy used to have with Harry, then. 

Eggsy doesn’t feel worshipped—he feels like a glorified sex toy. But, once again, a mission is a mission. He lets John undo his fly and raises his hips slightly for John to slide them down a bit, enough to reveal Eggsy’s black boxers and the not-quite-as-hard-as-he’d-like cock concealed inside them.

_Focus, Eggsy. Focus._

“Is this even allowed?” Eggsy teases, because he can. “A Baronet on his knees for a common tailor?”

John tuts, smiling as he noses Eggsy’s cock through the soft cotton underwear, big eyes looking up at him and fingers snaking up his thighs hook under the elastic band of his boxers. “Hardly a _common_ tailor, are you, Mr. Unwin? You’re practically—mmh, _fuck_ ,” he interrupts himself as he uncovers Eggsy’s half-hard cock, plants a kiss on the tip, lips and tongue working already. “...royalty,” John finishes, with a wolfish grin.

Not really knowing how, Eggsy manages not to roll his eyes at the franky expected but still altogether tasteless allusion at his past as a Prince Consort. He feels a flush of heat radiate from the tip of his cock as John kisses it again, moaning around it this time. And well, damn, Eggsy hates the man and this stupid dominating act he’s having to put on—but it’s been so, so long since he’s had anyone touch him like this, even if it’s not about making him feel good, he’ll take it. He gently tugs on the Windsor on his tie to undo it a tad. He needs out of these clothes, pronto. He needs _air_.

John briefly stops going down on him and one of his hands comes up, grips Eggsy’s wrists that were already moving past his bow tie, to undo the buttons on his collar. “No. Keep it on,” he demands—once again, not a question.

There’s a roleplay element to this, Eggsy figures. John wants to keep Eggsy as Eggsy sometimes used to keep Harry—fully dressed when Eggsy used to be naked or wearing ridiculous kinky undergarments ( _lace_ , he fleetingly recalls). Asserting submission by baring himself completely: a common whore for a businessman, a rentboy for a tailor, a _wee slut_ for—

_Fuck, no._

Eggsy bites his lip and nods in assent, desperately trying to focus on what’s happening, the tip of John’s tongue tracing Eggsy’s shaft from base to tip and— _oh, but he’s good, to hell with him_ —and down and up again, then finally taking Eggsy in all the way, in one smooth stroke that has Eggsy’s eyes roll back in his skull and his hands automatically come to rest on John’s head.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes, almost voiceless, as he tentatively rolls his hips backwards and then forwards, hitting the back of John’s throat and ripping a loud groan from him. _Yes. Yes, this is good. Make some noise, you gorgeous fucker. Make me want it more._

He thrusts lazily in and out for a while, then—enjoying the silky heat of John’s mouth, being put to so much better use now than when he was talking empty posh-fuck gobshite. In fact, Eggsy is now effectively revelling in the complete silence reigning in the room that all but heightens the wet sounds of gagging that honestly are really, really helping out with this whole _staying in the moment_ palaver, what with the absolute storm going on inside his head.

Except, well, after a while the present still blurs with the past as Eggsy finally throws his mind back to a useful memory: he’d been in the mood, once, and he’d asked. The result ended up being Harry tied to the bed, wrists and ankles, and Eggsy fucking his face, one hand gripping the thick wooden headboard and the other pulling on Harry’s hair—which wasn’t curly as John's is, but long all the same, long and unruly and _perfect_ , and he’d ridden that sensation for what felt like hours, before finishing all over Harry’s face.

As good as this feels, however, he knows he can’t indulge in making this bit any longer: if he’s got this man figured out as he thinks he has, he knows that he needs to actually be fucked senseless before the night is done.

“So, so good, fuck,” Eggsy curses again, this time making a point to tug on John’s hair a tad harder, in hope that the man will get his meaning, _get off or I’m not going to last_ , but he doesn’t—he _loves_ his hair pulled, apparently, what a surprise—he just takes it as encouragement, hollowing his cheeks and sucking with more purpose, and Eggsy can’t, he can’t, he has to say something.

“John, I… oh, I’m gonna...” he lets out, and that somehow does the trick. He was right about John, then: he does need to be nailed to some kind of hard surface to _actually_ get off.

“Oh, no, you’re not,” John says, hoarse and low, as he climbs on top of Eggsy once again to kiss him fiercely. Eggsy’s cock is resting against John’s buttocks, still rudely pulsating with how close he’s just come to falling completely apart inside John’s overly talented mouth. “You have to fuck me first, remember?” John asks, grabbing Eggsy by the chin, tilting it up and squeezing it, as if addressing a petulant child. “Don’t make me regret not having gone for the Scotsman, Mr. Unwin,” he finishes, defiant and disdainful.

The indirect mention of David has many different effects on Eggsy, all at once. 

Irrational jealousy, possessiveness over something, _someone_ Eggsy doesn’t even (figuratively) _own_ in the first place. 

Anger and spite, for being talked down to, for his sexual skills being questioned, which any other time would actually bring about some kind of stage fright as well—but this time it’s only rage.

Cockiness and willingness to prove himself, which, even if it fully means falling into this horrible man’s trap—Eggsy doesn’t _need_ to prove anything to anyone, thank you very much—it also implies potentially getting off and quite literally _eating the rich_. Plus, if the rich has the time of his bloody life while at it, balance of probability says that he might well blab about what the fuck his boss is doing that’s turning people into mind-controlled climate activists, too.

All in all, it sounds like a solid plan.

Eggsy feels a fire roaring inside him as he brings his right hand to John’s throat and reaches around over John’s hip to grab his own spit-slick cock with his left. “What did you just say to me?” Eggsy replies, calm and dangerous, squeezing John’s throat hard enough that he actually feels both of their cocks harden just a tad. _Yes, this is working. Fuck yes._ “Do you really think I can’t give you what you need? Do you think you can disrespect me this way without any consequences, hmm?”

He’s being mouthy, he knows, and it’s a big risk he’s taking—John might not be into it, he might want to keep this stupid bratty sub act going, might be turned off by Eggsy suddenly rebelling—but again, if he’s understood the man’s game, he’s also understood his weak spot.

“N-no,” John replies, in a small, higher pitched voice, wheezing through the pressure of Eggsy’s hand on his throat. Eggsy chokes him a little harder still. “No, _sir_ ,” John immediately corrects himself.

 _Ding ding ding._ Eggsy loves being right.

“Didn’t think so,” Eggsy says, indulgently stroking his cock while he reduces the pressure of his hand against John’s Adam’s apple and moves it upwards a bit, cupping John’s cheek and stroking his lower lip with the pad of his thumb. “I thought you were going to be a good boy for me, John. Take what I need and say _please_ and _thank you_. I can fuck you so well if you’re good. Do you want to be good for me, John?”

John fixes Eggsy intensely, eyes glazed with lust, clearly _ecstatic_ about the change of dynamics—even if Eggsy suspects he’ll never admit it if asked about it. The little Lord who wants for nothing and with the plain-as-day mummy issues, needing to be put in his place? Imagine that.

He actually puckers up his lips and kisses Eggsy’s thumb softly as he nods—the absolutely sinful creature. “Yes, sir.”

Judging by the way Eggsy’s cock has just twitched interestedly, it’s clear that maybe Eggsy should have given this domming gig a whirl a few years ago.

“Very well,” Eggsy says, appreciatively, patting John’s cheek firmly. That causes John’s mouth to fall agape and a hopeless sigh to escape from his lips. _Jesus._ “Bed, now,” he commands, trying to ignore the way John’s perfect rear is grinding against his still unclothed and hard cock for a couple of seconds, before John actually gets up and does Eggsy’s bidding.

Eggsy tucks himself in best as he can—not like he’s going to stay dressed that much longer, anyways. Or, actually: maybe he is? He hasn’t decided yet. Either way, his tux jacket needs to go. As do his Clansman-issue cufflinks—slipped safely inside one of his pockets—because he’s got a vision to fulfill. Something else from his past he wants to replicate. Something he saw in a mirror approximately a million years ago: himself, sprawled face down on the bed while Harry spanked him raw—still dressed, his sleeves rolled up, his hands big and merciless. That furtive look Eggsy gave the mirror while it was happening is still one of the best decisions he’s ever made.

While he’s finishing rolling up his sleeves, he watches John settle on the bed. Peachy arse jutting up—has he put a cushion under his hips already, or is that all _him_?—and the esplanade of that back, all curves and deep ridges of muscle, contracting as he writhes left and right, up and down, clearly crawling out of his skin with excitement at the promise of whatever he’s just managed to turn Eggsy into doing unspeakable things to him.

And, well, despite himself, Eggsy really does _want_ to do unspeakable things to him. Starting from—

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to spank you for that little spot of impertinence from before, John,” Eggsy declares, approaching the side of the bed and kneeling near the edge. John turns his head to look at him. _Keen_ , is a word Eggsy would use to describe him. “Ten strokes, I reckon. And you’re going to count for me.”

Surprisingly, John gets through the first three without flinching: the skin of his buttocks gets angry red and holds the mark of Eggsy’s palm, sure, and his voice trembles as he counts, but he doesn’t sob out in pain or pleasure as Eggsy would have suspected. Wanted, really. He wants to hear this man falling completely apart for him before he even thinks of giving him his cock.

“What’s the matter, gorgeous?” Eggsy prompts, shifting on the bed so he’s kneeling between John’s sprawled legs. He brings a hand over each buttock and kneads the inflamed skin for a second, _too fucking perfect_ , before coming up on all fours and hovering over John’s back, closer, but not touching him. “You’re being so quiet,” he whispers, low, in John’s ear. John arches his back to lean into Eggsy’s touch, writhing in anticipation. 

And then it dawns on Eggsy. _Fuck_. “Oh, I see. You need it harder, don’t ya?” he asks, running the tip of one finger between John’s shoulder blades and feeling every muscle contract, as if electrocuted. John nods frantically, pushing himself up on his elbows and somehow still managing to get his arse higher up, and now he just looks like some kind of deity out of a Neoclassical painting—something equally untainted and corrupt, just waiting for Eggsy to wipe the pretend purity off completely. 

Eggsy bites on John’s lobe from behind and briefly grinds his painfully hard cock on John’s jutted butt, then whispers, “Very well, then.” He moves back to his original position, delivering two more strokes, one on each buttcheek, hard and sharp, then spreads them and dips in, licking across John’s unnaturally immaculate hole, which tears a strangled whine out of him, exactly as expected. Eggsy waits with bated breath for John to count: he watches John hopelessly keen instead, arse up a bit more still, silently begging. Key word being _silently_.

“Aren’t you forgetting something, John?” Eggsy taunts, teasing his hole once again, this time with the tip of his index and middle finger, feather-light, while he lifts one of the elastic bands of the jock and releases it again, deliberately letting it whip back on his skin. “Let me hear you.”

John obliges, counts _four_ and _five_ in a small voice, then mutters again the silk sheets, “Give me more... _please_ ,” he adds, remembering, almost too late.

Eggsy bites hard on John’s left cheek, then slaps his right twice more, so hard that he sees every muscle on John’s back contract beautifully as he rolls his hips into the mattress, visibly looking for some friction. “Fuck,” he chokes out, muffled against the sheets. His voice sounds wet with tears, and that somehow gets Eggsy harder. “Six, seven,” he then obliges, before pushing his arse back out. “Need your tongue again, fuck, give it to me, I need it, I… _oh, God!_ ” he cries out, as Eggsy delivers the three final blows with the back of his hand, then elects to let loose a bit and give John what he’s not-so-kindly asking—because, on a purely selfish angle, Eggsy just can’t wait to hear the man sob like the slut he so clearly is and praise his tongue work once again.

It turns out to be a very sloppy rimjob, during which Eggsy ultimately has to block John’s wrists behind his back to stop him from touching himself, further feeding John’s kink and his own newly found inclination for having a pretty man beg and wail under his ministrations. When, after what feels like too much and yet too little time, John actually _comes_ , virtually untouched, Eggsy feels like his entire body is also experiencing some kind of sexual release. It’s just the sweet, sweet validation, really—he’s good, he’s _so good_ he’s just made a posh boy with an oral fixation climax on his tongue and the mere promise of fingering alone. And that, coupled with the mental image of nailing said posh boy to any nearby surface and getting him boneless and ecstatic enough that he’ll run his mouth off in a direction that’s actually useful for the purpose of the mission, is everything Eggsy needs.

(Well. Tonight, at least.)

Finally, _finally_ he feels like his head is completely in the game. Finally, he’s not thinking of—

“Fuck me,” John demands, after rolling over to lie on his back, chest heaving and a spent smile on his face. When Eggsy, not wanting to let him have it that easily, doesn’t react, John reaches for Eggsy’s still tied bow tie and pulls him in, so Eggsy’s covering his body, hands planted on each side of his head and a good view of those big, brown eyes and those dark, dark curls, tousled and wet with perspiration. 

“Now, now, John,” Eggsy coos, shifting his weight to his right hand and cupping John’s jaw with his left. “Wouldn’t you prefer asking nicely, instead? Now you know what happens if you’re bad?”

John has a wicked glint in his eye. He reaches up and sticks two fingers in Eggsy’s shirt collar, pulling him in even closer, so that their lips are millimetres apart. He smiles that hungry smile once again, the one that is weirdly familiar, then speaks again. “Mmh. No, don’t think so. I quite enjoyed that, you know,” John replies, catching Eggsy’s lower lip between his teeth. “Bring it. I can take it,” he declares, audaciously.

Eggsy moves his hand lower, wrapping it around John’s throat once again. He smiles devilishly down at John, and applies some pressure. “Have it your way, then. Let’s see if you really _can_ take it.”

Thinking on the spot, fucking John into the mattress feels like a kindness—and the last thing Eggsy wants to be to this entitled rich prick is _kind_. So, Eggsy moves to one side, off John completely now, and manhandles him so he’s on his front. He grabs a fistful of John’s curls and roughly tugs on them as he crawls backwards on his knees and off the bed, John arching his back and whining in pain, but still complying. As soon as they’re both standing up, Eggsy presses himself flush into John’s back, his free hand coming round to caress his abs and his painfully hard cock poking John’s Venus dimples. He whispers in John’s ear, then. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll feel me for days. And I’m going to do it,” he pauses briefly, spinning John round so he can show him, “against that window. So, if anyone looks up, they’ll see what a cheap little whore the Baronet of Ridlington really is.”

Seven marvellous minutes later, after a spot of fingering and an executive decision that inevitably had him take a leaf out of David’s book ( _dammit_ ), Eggsy ends up buried balls deep in an already absolutely wrecked John, who just so happens to also be blindfolded with Eggsy’s bow tie and, as promised, pressed hard against the floor-to-ceiling glass window.

Admittedly, it has indeed been a good while since Eggsy actually topped anyone. However, it turns out that topping is like riding a bike, and it also feels very fucking good, so it’s really, really not a hardship to dive back in head (well, _cock_ ) first, and have a great time while at it, too. And John, despite his abhorrent attitude and the privilege running through his veins that makes Eggsy’s blood boil, really is a perfect little slut. 

Eggsy tells him that. Multiple times. Lays it on nice and thick, completing the act with more roughness: hair-pulling, obviously, and choking, and harsh bites all over that gorgeous back, and some borderline disgusting dirty talk, complete with a touch of degradation (John turns out to _adore_ that, once again, go figure)—all the while chasing his own orgasm. Surprisingly, it comes later than he’d expected it to. This is likely due to the lingering sensation that, despite how good it feels to be fucking a pretty man with a tight arse and a filthy mouth, it’s really someone else he wishes he was spending a lewd, overindulgent night with.

He does come, however, and when it happens he spills deep inside John. John, true to his dickish, entitled self and despite the whiny sub act, swatted Eggsy’s hand away when he tried to get a rubber out—because, allegedly, _can’t feel anything with those on_ (all in all, God bless Merlin for putting all Kingsman agents on PrEP years ago, really). He’s not quite sure/doesn’t give a flying fuck whether John has a second orgasm, however, because a quick assessment of the man’s current state says Eggsy’s reached his goal nonetheless: when he pulls out, John can barely stand straight.

For half a second, as he perfunctorily tucks himself back in and runs a hand through his dishevelled hair, Eggsy has the impulse to just watch John crumble to the gorgeous carpeted floor, spent and fucked out, and go wash himself off. Then he remembers that he is supposed to be, before anything else, a gentleman, so he waits for John to turn around—when he does, he’s got a giant, blissful smile plastered on his pretty face—and kisses him softer than he really deserves before hoisting his whole body up and carrying him over to the bed (a move he remembers being one of Harry’s favourites, a few years ago and when Eggsy was a few pounds lighter).

John lands back on the silk sheets with a loud, content sigh and a giggle. Eggsy’s painfully aware that the man’s by no means going to bother to actually say _thank you_ , but he is indeed looking extremely satisfied. Therefore, Eggsy considers the first bit of his mission partially accomplished and promptly decides to move on with the second part of his grand plan.

He excuses himself to the bathroom to clean up as best he can and send a quick check-in message to whoever’s on, to let Clansman know he’s effectively got Phase One under his belt. He also takes the opportunity to check his face in the mirror: he can’t help but notice that, for someone who’s just had his first real fuck in months, he looks surprisingly put together. Just a few strands of hair out of place, a delicate sheen of sweat over his brow and slightly darker than usual, swollen lips from biting and kissing. He looks like he’s been styled for a fucking photoshoot. If only David could see him now.

 _Not the time, Eggsy_ , he reasons with himself as he fishes in his left trouser pocket for the gadget he’s been positively dying to use ever since David blew his mind describing its functionalities: the Clansman pocket watch. Hours ago, this felt like the obvious choice of accessory for this honeypot, if anything because it goes _perfectly_ with the suit he's wearing. But then, when Eggsy set eyes on John Catesby for the first time—a posh boy who looked like he would enjoy a couple of lines after a rough fuck—he couldn't help but start wondering whether his proverbial instinct and people skills were, once again, spot-on. 

He opens the watch to check that all the capsules of what he's been labelling as 'magic snow' are there, he straightens himself up one last time and sends another message to Mission Control, _going back in_ , puts on a confident smile, then walks out the door.

When he turns the corner that gets him back to the bedroom bit of the suite, Eggsy finds John laying on a mountain of cushions and tapping away on his phone. _Adding “London tailor, former royal consort” to your list of hookups, are you, dickhead?_

“Oh, Gary, here you are. Pour us a drink, yeah? I’m trying to sort something out—oh, come _on_!” he exclaims, irritably, without raising his gaze from his phone and furrowing his brow. Eggsy turns his back on John, rolling his eyes as he makes his way towards the small table where the decanter is. As he’s pouring the Scotch into the tumblers, Eggsy is startled by another outburst coming from the bed. “Can’t anyone do without me for just one _damned_ night?”

“Is everything alright, John?” Eggsy asks, in the kindest tone he can muster.

“No, everything is _not_ alright. My blasted boss won’t leave me the fuck alone,” John replies, rolling his eyes dramatically. “I swear to God, that woman would be lost without me. It’s like I have to do everything around here. Can’t even take _one_ evening off, can I? Jesus fuck.”

 _Pretty sure you were supposed to be working, tonight, sweet cheeks_ , Eggsy thinks sardonically. _Of course your boss is looking for you, knobhead._ But better not say any of that out loud, and better start recording this bit: what this dimwit has to say about his _boss_ could definitely be interesting.

Eggsy discreetly taps on the side of his specs and automatically switches to a troubled, caring expression as he moves back towards the bed. “Ah, that sounds really annoying. Hopefully it's nothing too bad?” he asks, interested but not nosy, with a smidge of genuine concern. Not for John’s job or his life, of course—those can definitely hang. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Unless you’re aware of some kind of black magic that can make missing people come back in an instant, I’m afraid not, dear,” John says, dismissively and condescendingly, as he picks up the tumbler from Eggsy’s outstretched hand, without bothering to say thank you or make even a shred of eye contact. He’s still looking at his phone, and his expression reminds Eggsy of a capricious child who’s being told to eat his spinach, or he won’t get to have any pudding.

“Missing person? Not a family member, I hope?” Eggsy doubles down on the agitated act, sensing this conversation might well be going somewhere.

“I almost wish it was,” he snorts, “that would at least justify this whole shitstorm that, for some reason, _I_ have to be dealing with. No, it’s just some cunt from the lab who’s trying to do us dirty. The Duchess says she’s apparently run off with a vial of antidote—but like, what’s she going to do with _one_ sample?”

 _Fuck. Fuck. This really is good stuff. An antidote? And, by God, does this man really not understand that a sample can be studied and potentially replicated at will? How is_ he _in charge?_

“Hmm-hmm,” Eggsy hums, sitting down on the bed, and deciding to indulge him even further. “Seems like a weird thing to get all worked up about. Especially if this person wasn’t actually running things?”

“Pfft, that dumb cow? Not a chance she would know what she was doing.” _Yeah, like you would. Please._ “She just wants to make some quick cash off _our_ hard work.” _Once again, three-hundred percent sure that is the wrong possessive you just used, there, pal._ “Ugh, these people are going to make me go grey before my time!” he exclaims, slamming his phone on the bed next to him and running a hand through his luscious curls.

Eggsy reaches a hand out to caress a firm, rounded deltoid, and John finally raises his gaze and locks eyes with him. Eggsy smiles sweetly. “This is an overworked man if I’ve ever seen one,” he says, tracing a gorgeous collarbone with the tips of his fingers and scooching a tad closer. “Want me to help you take the edge off, Sir Catesby?” he whispers, leaning in seductively until he’s practically kissing John, but not quite.

“I might… mmmh, but you’re the Devil, Mr. Unwin,” he interrupts himself to bite on Eggsy’s lower lip and look at him intensely. “The answer’s yes, but I might need a few. I also have to do something else first, hold on.”

Like that, he’s back on his phone for five full minutes, during which Eggsy proceeds to take the hint to kindly fuck off somewhere else. So, he decides to take a small walk around the giant suite and even gets to stare at the twinkling lights of Rome in the distance, and that almost, _almost_ gets lost in his own head all over again. That is, until—

“How is it _possible_ that none of my contacts in this stupid city are available, tonight? Useless sacks of shit, the lot of them.”

Eggsy turns on his heels, his back to the window and every lingering thought of David stashed aside. “What’s the matter now?” he asks, trying once again to sound like he gives a toss, and not like he’s addressing a petulant six-year-old.

“ _Snow_ is the matter, my dear fellow,” John replies, shaking his head one last time and finally discarding his phone. “And that we’re likely not getting any,” he says, snottily.

Eggsy hears literal victory bells ringing inside his head— _being right really is better than sex, sometimes_ —and covers the distance that separates him from the bed in a couple of strides. He sits down next to John once again, and lets his mouth curl into his best, most devilish grin. “Well, well, well. It looks like I’m about to make your night once again,” he delivers, confidently, as he fumbles in his pocket for the watch and gets it out, dangling it in front of John’s eyes for a beat.

John raises an eyebrow, clearly not getting it. _Not surprised there._ “Pretty watch, Mr. Unwin. Family heirloom? What the fuck am I supposed to _do_ with it?”

“Trust me, John. Just open it, and you might well decide that I am, after all,” _as you so elegantly put it right before I fucked your brains out_ , “worth keeping.”

John looks intrigued, if a little weirded out, but he complies. The watch clicks open, and suddenly a contented glow (that has nothing to do with the aftermath of his orgasm) appears on his face. He looks up at Eggsy and holds up a capsule between his thumb and index finger.

“My, my, Mr. Unwin. What a wicked man you are,” he says, appreciatively, with a half-smile.

Eggsy smiles back and winks at him. “It’s the best one you’ll _ever_ have, trust me.”

“That is a very bold claim, don’t you know?”

“Oh, but I stand by it, one hundred percent. Here, let me,” Eggsy holds out his hand for John to hand him back the watch.

He twists one capsule open and pours the coke out in a neat line on the mahogany nightstand, then pats his back pocket to extract his money clip. He pulls out an ostentatious 500€ bill and rolls it into a tight cylinder, then hands it to John with a shit-eating smirk. “After you, Sir Catesby,” he says, surreptitiously picking the watch back up and pocketing it again. He keeps his thumb and middle finger on the crown, ready to pull it and turn it.

It works like a bloody charm. John is off his tits in what feels like three minutes, tops—and he looks like he’s getting louder and mouthier by the second, too.

“It’s just, like, gotten _so complicated_ ,” John says, as Eggsy’s bending over the nightstand to snort his first line. It’s supposed to be a very, very mild high, that according to instructions will only get him—oh, alright, damn, it _does_ work. It is making him want to fuck some more, all the while keeping his head completely clear, if only giving him a little buzz of energy. “You know, I just thought they would be targeting some people, not entire populations. Prominent people. The ones who actually can make a difference, not _masses_ ,” he finishes, the disdain in his voice at the mention of _plebeians_ quite palpable.

Eggsy rests the rolled up note on the nightstand and sits back down on the bed, closer still, seduction mode engaged, and tries not to sound too eager while asking, “Has it gotten a bit out of control?”

John sighs in audible annoyance. “A _bit_? Try a _lot_ ,” he bursts out, sounding a bit manic, lying back on the cushions and pinching his nose. “They released these things, these… wait, I’ll show you, actually, can’t be arsed to explain.” He pats around him until he finds his phone again. Taps away for a couple of beats and then turns the screen for Eggsy to see. 

It’s a picture of a fairly big and incredibly scary-looking bug. _Fuck me_ , he says to himself, not three seconds into looking at the picture. _Is this the thing we’ve been after? Is this dunce really showing me this after just a couple of snorts? This stuff must really be good, dammit._

“Ugly little bugger, isn’t it,” John prompts, taking advantage of Eggsy’s astonishment. _‘Little’ isn’t really a word I’d use, no._ “It was supposed to be, how’d they put it again? A ‘gentle mode of persuasion’: get people more suggestible and aware about the awful state of the planet, get big private companies to finally start making real efforts, get useful bits of legislation passed, stuff like that. Flash-forward a couple of months, the fuckers started going a bit mad on us. We’re not sure what happened yet, but, you know. Results were in quite quickly. Dead people. Bit nasty,” John states, in an extremely unremorseful and unbothered tone. “That’s what the antidote’s for: the _nasty_ ones.”

Just then, John’s phone starts buzzing loudly in Eggsy’s hand, and a call alert pops up in front of the bug picture. The caller ID just says “Lab HQ”, and the number sports a +354 area code. Eggsy’s about to do a quick search himself, but he gets beaten on time: he almost immediately sees a notification come in on his glasses, a message from the handler that reads _it’s Iceland, Galahad._

Eggsy refrains from punching the air in triumph at collecting yet another piece of the puzzle, in favour of handing John the phone with a fake apologetic smile on his face. “They really don’t seem to be able to cope without you, do they?”

“Ughhhhh!” John groans heatedly, snatching the phone from Eggsy’s hand. After the quick second it takes him to figure out who’s calling, he says, “gotta take this or they won’t leave me alone all night. Want that last line though, pour it out for me, yeah? Be right back.”

When John is off the bed, Eggsy finally allows himself to roll his eyes freely as he pops another capsule of snow open and pours it on the dark wood, arranging it in a thin line. He turns the crown of the watch to max once again, settles on the bed with his hands behind his head, then shamelessly eavesdrops on John’s phone call.

For the longest time, it sounds like an uttered conversation that he doesn’t manage to catch much of—no problem, really: he knows that Hume’s minions would decode the audio feed and manage to extrapolate it all—but what he does catch quite clearly, because John is clearly not minding himself anymore by that point, is the end of it. 

“I don’t fucking care how you’re supposed to do it. _Legwork_ is your side of the deal, Pete.” A brief silence, then he snarls again. “No, you don’t bloody need me! You _can’t_ need me already. There is no coordination to be done yet, because we don’t even know where we’re looking, are we? You said it yourself—you have no clue what country she could be in, right now. Stop wasting my time. Do some digging. Call some people. Do whatever the fuck you need to do to find out, that’s not my problem. Don’t disturb me again until you have some real information.”

Like that, the call is over. John practically flies back to the bed and makes a point of showing Eggsy that he’s putting the phone on silent, before bending over the nightstand once again and quite purposefully arching his back and pushing his arse outwards and upwards. _It’s the coke_ , Eggsy tells himself when he rolls on his side and the palm of his hand lands on a perky buttcheek and makes John gasp loudly, right after he’s finished snorting his line.

“Nothing urgent, then?” Eggsy says, as John comes up on the bed and unceremoniously straddles him. “Did you deal with it?”

“ _They’ll_ deal with it,” John corrects him. “I have to deal with this, now. Priorities, you know,” he finishes, hands immediately finding Eggsy’s erection and squeezing it lightly through the thin wool of his trousers.

Eggsy chuckles, low and provocative, and he pushes himself up to a sitting position, arms closing around John’s small waist and lips connecting once again. “Want my cock again, do you, John? Gonna ask nicely for it this time, mmh?”

“No,” John replies, defiant. “Wanna ride you.”

And ride Eggsy he does, looking like a natural while at it, one would say. It’s almost a shame, Eggsy fleetingly ponders—right after a quick and rather powerful second orgasm and a bit of discreet fumbling with his Kingsman watch—that John won’t remember any of this in the morning.

It’s two darts, one after the other: the first puts John right to sleep—Eggsy makes a point to get that done _before_ John can come, because he’s decided that such a horrible human being does not reasonably deserve to feel this good, this many times—and the second wipes John’s last 24 hours off his memory forever. Then, after a couple of minutes of trying, he hacks into John's phone. With the handler's help, he manages to install a mirroring software that will allow Clansman access to everything he'll be up to from today onwards. When he's confirmed that everything is working properly, he puts the phone back and allows himself to give John's gorgeous hair one last, lingering stroke, while whispering, “Thanks a lot, you gorgeous dimwit.”

As he slips out of the bedroom and back into the living room, Eggsy looks fleetingly at the mini bar and decides to check it; inside, he finds a chilled bottle of Prosecco, that he proceeds to steal alongside two crystal flute glasses he sees nearby. He glances back at the gorgeous, ripped body of John Catesby, sleeping quietly on the giant bed, and feels a giant, satisfied smirk creep up on his face. 

Once he’s out of the suite, Eggsy checks back in with mission control: they’ve got the lot, _thanks very much Galahad, great work, now fuck off_. And fuck off—gladly, blissfully—Eggsy does. Heck, he feels light as a feather. He rides the lift down to the ground floor, then flows back out of the Russie onto Piazza del Popolo like a summer breeze. He’s positively buzzing from endorphins: a job well done, a light, pleasant high, two shattering orgasms—and, of course, the idea of reuniting with David at the end of it all.

Except, he can’t help but notice as soon as he looks at what’s supposed to be his and David’s deserted rendezvous spot, something is wrong. David isn’t there. He doesn’t even know what he was expecting, really. Fellini movies aren’t real life, after all. And yet; he would have killed to take a mental photograph of David, smooth and gorgeous, the silver streak in his hair glimmering in the pale moonlight, standing by the colossal obelisk in the middle of the piazza, smoking and brooding, with a half-worried look on his face. Instead, Eggsy only sees a few pigeons flying around, a seagull, and a couple of teenage girls holding hands.

_Where the hell is he?_

Just as he’s thinking this, Eggsy notices a new notification shining blue on the inside of his glasses. A message from Mar, telling him David’s on his way to meet him. He breathes easier, sends a quick _thanks, love x_ back, and gets started on the dreadfully boring business of waiting around.

It takes ten minutes for the grey Aston Martin that David picked as his car for the night to drive into the piazza and pull over in front of him. The mere sight of the frankly ridiculously lavish vehicle sends Eggsy on yet another frenzy. Heart beating frantically, so hard he suspects he’ll soon be breaking a little sweat. _What the fuck is happening?_ As if anything between us was ever going to happen. Ugh. But it’s so good to see him.

David rolls down his window and smiles up at him: the smile isn’t the warm beam Eggsy’s used to, and it definitely doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hey, stranger.”

“Hey yourself, 007,” Eggsy jokes, ignoring the butterflies in his stomach. “Any luck?”

David shakes his head, huffs loudly. _Fuck. Something’s wrong._ “I’m afraid I’ve royally cocked it up. Not all my fault, to be fair: someone gave us away, and the news got to Ms. Thompson way too quickly.”

_Just goes to show, I suppose. Catesby’s worth zilch in this entire operation. Thank God he's got access to the basics, though._

“Someone gave us away?” Eggsy then replies, startled, realising what David just said. “Fuck, ‘ave we got a mole?”

David shrugs. “Lord knows. Andrew’s in the loop, anyways. He’s looking into it, I’m sure he’ll have an answer to that one soon. And if there is a mole, well: we’ll find the weasley cunt, don’ fret,” he says, with a small, unconvinced smile. “But hey, I’m guessing by yer face and that thing ye’ve got there that ye’ve got better news?” he adds, audibly trying to sound chipper and nodding at the bottle and glasses in Eggsy’s hands.

Eggsy feels himself flush crimson. “Um. Yes? A bit? Not that great, just…” He cuts himself off, swallows the river of nonsense he’s just let out, pauses to breathe. _Why the fuck am I being modest? He’s happy for me. He must be. The mission was a success._ “Oh, alright, you know what? Yeah—I’ve got fucking amazing news, actually. Would like to celebrate.” _With you._ “If you’re up for it?”

David smiles sweetly at him, and now Eggsy can tell it’s genuine. “Love to.” Even as he says this, there’s something in his eyes—his big, blue, sad eyes—that Eggsy can’t quite put his finger on. 

He decides to ignore it, however. He circles the front of the car and opens the passenger door, plopping down on the luxurious cream-coloured leather seat next to David. The car smells like it’s new—and just faintly like David’s woodsy cologne. 

Eggsy rests the bottle on his closed legs and turns to his left to face David.

“Hi,” is all he can say, because the sight of David—his entire presence, really—so close to him in such a tight space, is a bit overwhelming all of a sudden.

“Hi,” David replies. He quirks an eyebrow, grins. This time, it looks genuine. “What’re you doin’? We came here in separate cars, remember?”

Eggsy scoffs, feeling suddenly careless and bold. “Sod the car. We’ll just have one of Hume’s minions collect it tomorrow, eh? C’mon, Budd: drive. Take me somewhere. You look like you need a drink with a view.”

David doesn’t protest. He starts the Martin and just drives—expertly winding through the streets of Rome as if it was his second home, windows open and warm breeze ruffling his already messy curls. Eggsy can smell his cologne a bit more with every gust of wind, and he has to focus really hard on looking at the wonders of the Eternal City, out the window and through the car’s windshield, to avoid thinking about _that_ too much.

When the car stops again, it’s on top of a hill where the air smells like spring and the view is the one of the Circus Maximus. There’s a rose garden behind a nearby gate, David tells him. Shame it’s closed, he adds.

Eggsy just shrugs and smirks at him. “Never stopped me before.”

It’s past midnight, no-one is around, and, upon further inspection, the lock is really not that complicated to figure out—so Eggsy shoves the bottle and the glasses in David’s hands, and gets to work. 

It takes him less than a minute to pick it. _Fuck yeah. Still got it._

For his part, David seems to have lost the ability to question Eggsy’s definitely questionable actions: he just stares at Eggsy breaking the law with a half bemused, half amazed look on his face that Eggsy chooses to interpret as _you’re incredible_ rather than _you’re unbelievable_. Also, Eggsy doesn’t want to ask why David’s just going with his ridiculous and, dare he say it, _romantic_ antics without protesting: it’s just such a perfect, unexpected scenario to find himself in—David, a night in Rome, and roses all around them. He doesn’t want to _think_ about anything complicated, nevermind bring it up out loud.

They locate a natural niche that has them virtually hidden from any possible onlookers, deep inside a tunnel of climbing roses and surrounded by more thick bushes, and they settle on the ground—because, frankly, sod the crazy expensive suits, too. 

They pop the bottle of Prosecco, and then the rest is a bit of a blur. Eggsy remembers listening to the incredible story of how David was knocked out by what distinctly sounds like a genetically modified superwoman, then insisting to check on David’s wound, despite David protesting he’s fine, just a bit wrung out. When he realises that yeah, alright, it doesn’t look that bad after all, Eggsy starts breathing normally again and takes another sip of bubbly, while David asks him about his own night.

He decides, only half consciously, to leave out the raunchier bits of the tale. Instead, he launches on an excited recounting of how he used the special Clansman snow and managed to get all those juicy bits of information from pretty, dumb, douchebag John Catesby, and that goes down like a fucking dream. He can see David’s face light up more with every detail of his new discoveries that he lays out.

“Fuck, Eggsy, this is incredible. You bloody did it. Andrew’s going to be so pleased, mate.”

“Oh, it was nothing, really. Just put me best talents to work, I s’pose?”

Something happens to David’s face, then. The light of happiness and the sunny smile that had appeared on it while Eggsy was telling him about his success vanish in an instant. Eggsy can tell he’s trying to fight it—but in vain.

“And how was it, then?” David asks, bluntly.

Eggsy raises both eyebrows in surprise. He knows exactly what David’s on about—but he finds he wants to hear him say it. He wants to try and explore this kind of conversation with David. “How was what?”

David looks down at his own bent knees and smiles a small, slightly bashful smile. “You _know_ what.”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t, David. Would you mind being more specific?” Eggsy taunts him, smirking at the top of David’s head and his tousled curls that he’d just like to be able to pull while—

“Fucking hell, Eggsy.” David’s looking at him again, now. Burning a hole into his soul, more like. “The sex. How was the sex? You did fuck him, didn’t you?”

The slightly heartbroken tone of David’s voice stirs something inside Eggsy. There are so many things he’d like to say, but none he can reasonably voice out loud.

“Oh, that. Why didn’t you just _say_ that, you fake-coy bastard,” he replies, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Yes, I did fuck him. It was…” _weird. It was very weird._ He clears his throat, starts again. “It felt…” _wrong. So fucking wrong._ “He was…” _not you._ “Okay, I suppose? Not what I needed.” _Why am I even telling you all this?_ “Definitely not one for the history books. Ya happy?”

David looks taken aback—but also, mostly, _pleased_. “Y—I mean, _no_ , of course I’m not.” The moon is shining bright enough, even through all the climbing roses, to let Eggsy in on David’s reddening cheeks. “Wish you could’ve had more fun.”

Eggsy smirks as every sound around him is muffled by the frantic beat of his heart. “And you too, mate. That superwoman really did miss out.”

“Shut up, Eggsy. Ye’re pissed.”

“Look at your face, bruv: you’re definitely more pissed than me.”

“Maybe we should wait here for a wee bit, before driving back,” David suggests, blinking a couple of times.

Eggsy nods, scooches closer to David, then leans on the grass to look at the ceiling: roses, the night sky, and the silver sheen of moonlight. _Worse places to be lying next to the man you’re in l—_ can he even say that?

Silence falls, and sleep takes them both.

It’s David who gently shakes him awake, eventually. The sky is still mostly dark and there’s the faint sound of sprinklers in action all around them.

“Wh-what? What is it? Fell asleep, didn’t we?” he mumbles, incoherently, stupidly.

David smiles sweetly down at him. “Hmm-hmm. I’m only awake because I got a message from Hume.”

“Oh?” Eggsy asks, suddenly interested, coming to a sitting position. “We in trouble for picking locks and sleeping on public grounds when they’re paying for such a nice hotel for us, then?”

“Worse, I’m afraid. Or better? Depends how you look at it, I suppose,” David declares, mysteriously. He looks worried.

“Well? Will you tell me already?”

“All tactical teams and all the extraction folks were shipped to Thailand—Moray’s in trouble.”

_Julia. Of course he’s upset—his girlfriend’s in danger._

“Fuck, I’m sorry, David. D’you think she’ll be okay?”

David chuckles. “Oh, yeah, she definitely will. I don’t doubt that for one second, in fact.”

“Right, of course. Then, I don’t understand—what’s this mean for us?”

“Oh,” David says, somehow looking like the cat who got the cream, all of a sudden. “It just sounds like we’re stuck in Rome for at least another day more. And we have a full day off, apparently.” He’s smiling. _Beaming_. “Care for a wee tour, tomorrow?”

At the thought of that—the two of them, wandering around the city on their own, just being normal people for one day—Eggsy’s excitement ramps up. Of course, in order not to look or sound too eager, he tries to disguise it behind one of the most annoying things he could say. “I think you mean today, mate,” he replies, looking at his watch. 3:15 AM. Technically correct, but _God_ , he hates himself for saying that.

He still glances up at David, though, in the end, and the look on his face is just such a _treat_. Eggsy miserably fails to suppress a giant smirk. _He wants to take me on a private tour of Rome. No big fucking deal, eh?_

“Oh, sod off,” David says, rolling his eyes. He holds out a hand to help Eggsy up, which Eggsy takes gladly. When they’re both standing, close—one would argue, _too_ close—David raises an eyebrow at him. “That a yes, then?”

Eggsy bites the inside of his lip, fake-pensive. (This game is fun. David looks like he _really_ wants him to say yes.)

“Alright, David," he replies, with a wink and a smirk. "Yes. Let’s ‘ave it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL. This is exciting, isn't it? A whole day off, for them to do whatever the hell they want. 
> 
> Have you guessed it yet? It's my favourite bit I've written so far. And you'll get to read it in two, extremely short weeks. I promise, they'll fly by.
> 
> Thanks for being here, and for being patient with me.
> 
> Love you,
> 
> C xx


	15. XII. Roma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David flips him off. “Wanker. By the end of the day, ye’ll be down on yer knees thanking me for the best rapid-fire tour of Rome you could ever have asked for.”  
>   
>  _Down on my—_  
>    
> “Is that a promise, Budd?” Eggsy challenges, looking intensely at David through his shades.  
>   
> David nods confidently. “I’d put a money-back guarantee on it, but ye’re not actually paying me. Come along, no time to dawdle. So many fun facts, so little time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiiiiii!
> 
> Oh my gooooooddddd it's finally here. The chapter I've been working towards. The one which (like, debatably, most of the dynamic between these dumb boys) was veeery deliberately inspired by Cavill and Hammer's silly antics in Rome in _The Man From U.N.C.L.E._  
>  The one which, I hope, you'll love as much as I've loved writing it.  
> It's filled with easter eggs, bits and bobs of sweet, sweet resolution, and a lot of stuff from my personal trip to Rome last July (which I micro-managed down to the last detail to go see all the places I'd planned for this trip—because I'm a fucking lunatic, and also I'm very close to my work. What can I say. I hope it was worth it.)
> 
> I beg of you, please please _please_ read this while listening to **[the playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3e1QU2wQ39Ua30cLxROso3?si=jzW8pTHzQUq0AKEUZfNbog)**. It's one of the best curated ones, a mixture of ye olde Italian tunes and newer beats, and also a wee bit of Dean Martin and Sinatra for good measure. I promise you: it's _great_ <3
> 
> I'll leave you to it, now, shall I? This is a special one. I'm so excited for you to read it.

_**XII. Roma** _

**_Hotel Campo de’ Fiori, Rome. 8:45 AM_ **

“David?” Eggsy calls out, after knocking on David’s door for the third time. “C’mon, mate: you havin’ a wank in there or wha’?”

Immediately after, the door opens. Eggsy is faced by an unimpressed-looking David—a half smirk on his face that says _always so funny, Eggsy_ —who simply steps out of his room, shaking his head.

“I was just reviewing the plan I worked on in the past couple of hours. Hopefully we’ll manage to get through it all—I’m not really sure how long visiting some of these places will take us,” he delivers, unapologetic and with a small smile, while fixing a baseball cap on his head and pulling on the straps of his small backpack to adjust it. He gestures with his head towards the stairs. “Shall we?”

Eggsy doesn’t react immediately. He’s overwhelmed by what he’s seeing, really—as in, unable to get over the fact that David appears to be wearing a tight, tight, _tight_ white T-shirt, which clings to him in all the right places, looking like it’s going to burst, ( _who buys his clothes? Fuck, need to send them flowers_ ), and a pair of jean shorts, simple but just _perfect_ on him, but then he’d look good wearing a fucking bin bag, what the f—

“After you, Budd,” Eggsy replies, grinning broadly. He notices that his voice has just gone weirdly high-pitched for the tiniest second, there, but hopefully not long enough for David to actually notice. David just quirks an eyebrow at him and shakes his head again, before preceding him down the stairs.

Usually, walking behind David Budd down some stairs isn’t even remotely as satisfying as walking behind him _up_ some stairs. Today, however, Eggsy finds that (thanks to this expensive-looking James Dean tee the man’s sporting) it’s possibly even better. Something about how stupidly easy it is to fixate on the heft of David’s back—the ridges of muscle Eggsy can see on the areas that aren’t covered by the backpack, but most generally the entire shape of him, large shoulders and small waist, _fuck_ , and at some point Eggsy wants to ask the daft question, _are you secretly Captain America in your spare time?_ , but he realises how absolutely ridiculous it would sound and how much it would give him away. So he just swallows it, as well as the embarrassing amount of moisture in his mouth at the thought, and doesn’t breathe a word of his lusty musings.

The outside world in Campo de’ Fiori is, in a word, _bright_. The sun is shining and the pale stones buildings around them mercilessly reflect every ray of light right in their faces. Eggsy gets his sunnies out and puts them on, as he watches David do the same and once again struggles not to lose his composure in front of the levels of movie-star-smooth that David is serving, this fine day.

“It’s like Italy knows we’ve got a day off, eh?” David says, appreciatively, as he starts walking towards the actual Campo and into the busy market there.

Eggsy is fascinated at many things in there—the colours, the smells, the loud, singing voices, even the size of bloody onions, for fuck’s sake, he’s never seen anything like this—but what catches his eye most of all is the statue in the middle of the square. 

It’s of a rather ominous-looking hooded man, a hard expression on his face that has nothing to do with the fact he’s made of bronze, and a big book in his hands. Momentarily forgetting he’s not alone, Eggsy circles it, taking it in from all angles, before settling in front of it. The inscription on the base is in Italian and absolutely doesn’t help him.

“Giordano Bruno,” a familiar voice delivers, way too close to Eggsy’s ear, barely without the hint of an accent—all rolled R’s in place, as if Italian wasn’t a giant fucking headache for him. Eggsy turns to face David. “Philosopher and known heretic. Burnt at the stake right here,” he finishes, pointing at the statue and looking smug. 

“Geez,” Eggsy says. “Starting the day on a cheerful note, eh, David?” he teases, before he’s hit with a wave of realisation and his eyes widen in understanding. _Fuck._ “You weren’t kidding, then, were you? You really _are_ practically a local.”

David scrunches his nose up a bit and looks to his feet, _no big deal, really_ , and Eggsy can tell he’s biting the inside of his lower lip. “I just love it here. And I love history—always have, since I was a kid. They actually taught us so much, back home. Even in primary school.”

Eggsy rolls his eyes and gives him a sardonic smile. “Oh, please, tell me this is you about to slander the English state school system again—it’s literally my favourite thing you do!”

David flips him off. “Wanker. By the end of the day, ye’ll be down on yer knees thanking me for the best rapid-fire tour of Rome you could ever have asked for.”

_Down on my—_

“Is that a promise, Budd?” Eggsy challenges, looking intensely at David through his shades.

David nods confidently. “I’d put a money-back guarantee on it, but ye’re not actually paying me. Come along, no time to dawdle. So many fun facts, so little time.”

_This is absolutely ridiculous, and somehow I don’t think I’ve ever been more attracted to you. Even when you were threatening me with a knife. What are you doing to me, David Budd?_

*

**_Piazza Navona, Rome. 9:01 AM_ **

The place where Eggsy gets to do the gawking thing next turns out to be Piazza Navona—a beautiful, open square, featuring a perimeter lined with restaurants that are already crawling with people and the yet another egyptian obelisk smack in the middle of it (how many of these buggers are there in Rome?), surrounded by a giant baroque-looking fountain. The entire space feels very solemn, somehow, and yet still like it’s giving them a hug. Eggsy supposes that’s what David means, when he says he loves this city. That’s _why_.

As they approach the centre of the square, David throws him the name Gian Lorenzo Bernini, and explains that the four giant men sculpted in marble at the four corners of the fountain are supposed to represent the four main rivers of the (at the time known) world: the Nile for Africa, the Ganges for Asia, the Danube for Europe, and the Rio de la Plata for the Americas. “It’s actually called the _Fountain of the Four Rivers_. And, wait, c’mere, look at this bloke,” David beckons Eggsy as they’re circling the fountain. He points at the statue of what he said is the Nile, who appears to be shielding himself with his hand, as if he was afraid of getting hit by something.

“Yeah, what’s up wiv’ im, then?”

“It’s just a story and a huge anachronism, but I love it still,” David says, a twinkle of excitement in his eye. “The church we’re looking at, and that the statue is also looking at and looks appalled with, is the work of Bernini’s main rival back in the day, Francesco Borromini. The legend says that this statue was supposed to represent Bernini’s horror at Borromini’s 'awful work'. Unfortunately, like I said, it’s not true: the church wasn’t built for another two years after the fountain was inaugurated, but I think it’s such a realistic story because it resembles so many other (real) squabbles between artists at the time, and it always makes me smile to think of this version of events.”

Eggsy chuckles lightly. “Fuck, the Old Italian Masters were petty bitches like us, weren’t they?”

David gives him a dazzling smile, and a wink. _Stop it, stop being so bloody irresistible, why don’t you._ “One hundred percent.”

“So intense, my God,” Eggsy comments again, trying to snap a picture of the statue with the church behind it, trying to immortalise this memory.

“Speaking of _intense_ —I meant to tell ye something the other day, then I forgot,” David says, sounding a bit uncertain.

Eggsy locks his phone and pockets it, then turns to give David his full attention. “Oh?”

David took off his sunnies a while back, so his blue, blue eyes are now fixing Eggsy directly, and Eggsy feels naked for a second. “I got a pretty, um... _interesting_ message from your boyfriend, the other day. Quite over the top, if I’m honest—wasn’t expecting it. I mean, I get he’s the boss and all, but he’s a bit dramatic, isn’t he?”

Eggsy is nothing short of flabbergasted. “My... _what_?” _Does he think…?_

“Your boyfriend?” David insists, brow furrowed, a look on his face that seems to be halfway between amused and cross.

“I don’t _have_ a boyfriend?” Eggsy replies, confused. 

David raises an eyebrow while he takes a swig off his water bottle, visibly giving Eggsy time to process—so Eggsy does his best to take advantage of the silence to work it out. When he finally realises who David’s talking about, his heart sinks a bit. “Oh. Oh, no. Harry and I… Well, we’re not…” _together_ , is what Eggsy means to say, but it won’t come out. He lets the sentence hang, then—not like he can mean many different things by it, anyways.

There is one word to describe what David looks like, right now, and that word is _relieved_. His entire face has just lit up, but it's also obvious that he’s trying not to let it show too much. It’s actually rather adorable. _But also: what the fuck’s happening, please?_

“Are ye sure he knows that?” David asks, plucking his sunnies from the neck of his t-shirt and sliding them back on. He’s got a _shameless_ smile on his face.

“Pretty sure he does,” Eggsy retorts, smiling back up at David—can’t really resist it. “He dumped me. Just before I came up to Scotland, actually.”

“Right,” David says, raising a single eyebrow. “Sorry, didn’t mean tae—it’s just, you know, the call ye had with him, Merlin bringing you the umbrella, that message he sent me... I just assumed. I shouldn’t have.”

Eggsy sighs. “Nothing to be sorry for. I’ve been trying to figure it out myself, for way too long,” he admits. “And I’ve come to a conclusion: Harry is a complicated man, and I think I’m done with complicated men. There are enough complications in my life already, no need to seek out any more—especially as far as relationships go.”

David gives him a sweet smile. “Oh, how I resonate with that, my dear fellow. Shall we, by the way? You can tell me all about it while we walk, if you’d like.” He pauses for a second, seems to figure out he’s said something rather stupid. “Or not? You know. Whatever ye’re most comfortable with.”

“Relax, David. It really is all good, y’know. I’d _love_ to bring you up to speed.”

The five-minute walk that follows is a bit of an unexpected cathartic moment for Eggsy. He briefly lays out what he’s been telling himself for a while (and what Roxy has been telling him for even longer than that, really), but he has never really made himself believe: in the past, Harry was so good for him, for so, so long. But Harry right now, he’s just—not what Eggsy needs? Infuriatingly pushing him away, and still reeling him back in with Austen novels-worthy small gestures and sweet talk and bloody tokens of his affection, fucking hell. He's a thirty-year-old man in 2020, not a hopeless maiden in the 1800s.

Speaking of, Eggsy realises, Harry seems to have officially gone full Mr. Darcy on him, and has apparently started _threatening rivals_? He's not actually aware of the contents of the message, sure, but he knows Harry like the back of his hand, by now, and particularly how much of a jealous fucker he is: whatever Harry sent David’s way was, by all means, some kind of threat. A gentlemanly, veiled threat, perhaps, but a threat nonetheless. Eggsy remembers how Harry once took it upon himself to make sure that a particularly keen ( _in love, he was in love, the poor bastard—I’m too good sometimes_ ) honeypot target of Eggsy’s would definitely stop bothering Eggsy for the foreseeable future. Jealous Harry is scary and persuasive as ever-living fuck.

Except, right now, Harry has absolutely no right to be jealous. Eggsy realises this as David is nodding kindly and taking in the story in silence, while they walk close together through a narrow cobbled street that opens into another, smaller piazza, and a towering, ancient-looking monument greets them.

“I’d really like to see that message, by the way?” Eggsy prompts David, suddenly very bothered by this whole Harry situation. _How fucking dare he._

“Later,” David replies, determined and just positively giddy-looking. He takes his sunnies off again, gestures with them in the direction of the giant monument. “Now let’s go have a look inside my favourite place in Rome, shall we?”

The amount of trivia David has on the Pantheon turns out to be virtually endless. So much so, in fact, that Eggsy wonders whether he might have actually studied anything to do with art or architecture in school—or whether, perhaps, he’s just secretly a big old nerd.

The entire building is, admittedly, one of the most impressive things Eggsy’s ever seen. Starting from the Greek-temple-style portico _—monolithic columns, made entirely of Egyptian granite, and they were brought here in 115 AD, can you fecking believe it?_ —through the tall doors that apparently take eight people to open and close, and, of course, the humongous, grandiose dome towering over them as they finally get fully inside. 

Eggsy spends a good five minutes walking around with his mouth half open in wonderment, before realising that the most amazing thing about the Pantheon is not the size of the building, how old it is, or even the almost impossibly ingenious way the dome was constructed. No, the most mesmerising thing in front of his eyes, at the moment, is _David_. He’s glancing up at the hole in the dome and the rays of sunlight piercing the dark ceiling around it, shining on a statue in one of the church’s niches as if it was a stage light and the statue was a theatre actress, and he’s absolutely, completely breathtaking. The look in his eyes—pure, genuine awe—and the way each line on his face seems smoothed, somehow, like he’s in some kind of happy place, just makes Eggsy want to engrave this moment in his memory for the rest of his days. In fact, he’s not sure anything David will be showing him today will ever manage to top this. 

As they step out and David looks almost heartbroken to leave, Eggsy quickly thinks of a way to pick him up. “Fancy a coffee, mate? That place looks like a nice one for it,” he says, pointing to a bar in the corner of the small piazza.

David smirks, looking chuffed all over again. “That place only has the best coffee in the whole of Rome. Of course we’re going in,” he says, with a wink. 

They end up drinking their very short, very cheap, very concentrated, and out-of-this-world good espresso like the Italians do—standing at the counter and downing it in one go, like a shot. 

“Well,” David says, with a broad smile. “That was fucking great, as usual.”

“Ditto. If coffee back home tasted like that, I could even drop the cream and sweetener,” Eggsy agrees, as they nod goodbye to the nice barista behind the counter and venture into the adjacent room. There, Eggsy spots shelves full of coffee and has the instinct of grabbing a few bags—which inevitably makes David’s entire face light up. They move towards the till to pay and Eggsy has to physically fight David off when he tries to get his wallet out. 

“Please, Budd: let me treat your posh arse for once. It’s so rare to see you enthusiastic about something.” 

David’s eyes spell _fuck off_ for the briefest of seconds, before he actually blushes. “Thank you, Eggsy.” He bats his eyelashes, and bites the inside of his lip— _what the fuck, why_. _Why are you like this._

Eggsy makes a point of shrugging as nonchalantly as he can muster. “My pleasure, partner. Shall we?”

David smirks, then pulls his sunglasses back down on his face, as he rests a hand gently over the small of Eggsy’s back, nudging him on. “Absolutely.”

Ten minutes later sees them inside yet another colossal baroque church, which David says has a _wee secret_ , and that something in there _isn’t what it seems_. After begging for more clues for a while and getting dismissed and told to figure it out on his own, Eggsy asks for a deadline— _five minutes, otherwise ye really are a shite spy_ —and starts digging around the sacred space as discreetly as he can, suppressing more and more swearwords as the clock ticks and he has absolutely nothing to go about (apart, perhaps, from the priest who just stepped out from the confessional being smoking hot, unholy, really: maybe _he_ isn’t what he seems? Maybe he’s a stripper? _Good Lord, Eggsy, fucking seriously_ ).

“Well, you win, I guess,” he says, resignedly, after his fifth recon tour of the entire perimeter of a bloody big church, to an extremely amused-looking David. “Careful with the smugness, you’re starting to look scaringly like Hume.”

David scrunches his nose and raises an eyebrow. “You done, then? You give up?”

Eggsy rolls his eyes. “Has anyone ever told you how annoying you are, Hermione Granger?”

“I’m going tae go ahead and take that as a compliment,” David replies, circling Eggsy and doing that thing again, that _thing_ Eggsy hasn’t quite yet decided on—that thing where he pushes Eggsy gently forward, stirring him in the direction he wants to reach. “C’mon, I’ll show ye.”

They keep walking slowly down the aisle, and come to a halt at the crossing of the axes—the altar right in front of them, like it’s a fucking wedding. David is still behind Eggsy, standing very close now, and is he going to— _fuck, he is_.

“Look up,” David murmurs, right in Eggsy’s ear, breath hot and smelling faintly of coffee. _Fuck._ He’s so close that Eggsy can almost feel the prickle of his beard, and not leaning in to feel it properly is very, very hard. He turns to face the ceiling, instead, and what he sees is a pretty ordinary-looking dome, not even that richly decorated (for Roman standards, at least). _What is the big deal, seriously?_

“Yeah? It’s a dome?” Eggsy says, a bit impatiently, straining his neck and trying to move away from David and the excruciating proximity of their bodies. David, however, has both hands on Eggsy’s shoulders, and just moves with him, like a big, sturdy, ever-present shadow, accompanying him into his discovery. 

It takes him ten more seconds to get it: when he does, he stills abruptly, and David only narrowly avoids walking into him. “Oh. It’s fake, innit? It’s flat. _Painted_. What the f—”

David’s chest is pressed against Eggsy’s back. Eggsy can feel David’s heart thumping against his left shoulder blade as he leans in once again, whispers, “Attaboy,” and Eggsy holds his breath for a moment, half-expecting to get, what, kissed? _Here? What the hell is happening?_ But David simply ends up moving away a bit, to one side, mercifully not lingering too much, and launching on an explanation on how the Jesuites who built this church kinda ran out of money halfway through the construction, and had to somehow make do. 

For his part, Eggsy just focuses on catching his breath—because, what the fuck was that, even, eh?—and subsequently really, _really_ struggles not to stare at David too intensely while he delivers his respectfully hushed yet incredibly passionate monologue, like he’s the Scottish, hunky, and art-history-nerdy version of David bloody Attenborough, or summat. _God, you’re a wonder, aren’t you, Budd?_

He says it. Not very proud of himself for it, but he has to. “You’re… fuck, you’re amazing. How do you even know all this stuff?”

David smiles, fucking _winks_ , then gently closes one of his big hands around Eggsy’s elbow, gently stirring him towards the exit of the church. _Why does he keep touching me like this? What? The? Fuck?_

As soon as they’re out and walking again, David seemingly decides to break his loud, smug silence. “Art has always been my passion. I did study Engineering at uni, but took a couple of electives on Italian art—and then just read a bunch, I guess. Also, Hume basically has me on a priority list, and knows that if there’s any kind of mission happening in Italy and I’m not otherwise occupied, I’ve got first dibs on it. Simple, really.”

“How gracious of Hume, eh? bloody hell. Merlin always sends me off to the world’s worst pissholes, and you're on your own special-boy-list for missions in Italy? How come?” Eggsy thinks of something, then, and makes a fake-scandalised face. “ _David Budd_ ,” he says, in a dramatic and slightly camp tone. “Hadn’t realised you were shagging your boss, too! Twinsies!” he exclaims, with a sarcastic smile on his face.

David’s expression is unreadable for a second. Then, he looks like he wants to eat Eggsy alive—in the best possible way, somehow (i.e. the sexual one). Then, he bursts into laughter.

“Well, alright, I guess I deserved that, aye,” he says, chuckling. He raises an eloquent eyebrow. “And don’t get me wrong: he _is_ a bit of a dish. Everyone thinks that. Unfortunately, however, he’s as straight as they come. Also, he seems tae have set the bar immensely high for a man of his wee stature. I mean, ye saw who his type is just last night: Hume dates fucking movie stars. _Female_ movie stars,” he adds, pensively, as they turn a corner. “Or at least that’s the intel I have on the man. Maybe he does do blokes, occasionally—just really fucking handsome ones? Not like this,” David says, gesturing up and down his body with the back of his hand. “ _Handsome_.”

Eggsy audibly scoffs. _Would you give me a fuckin’ break, Budd. I’m not going to bite on that juicy bait for compliments you have hanging there for me. Not a bloody chance, mate._ “Shame,” is what he ends up saying out loud, as he glances sideways to hide the sudden colour in his cheeks and ends up looking at a narrow, cobble-paved alley and wishing he could be kissing David stupid, pressed into one of those door niches underneath red and pink geraniums. _That’d shut him up, at least._

Their stroll by the Trevi Fountain really is, by all means, just a stroll. Too crowded, too hectic, not Eggsy’s favourite at all. However, he does end up caving and plucking the one euro coin from David’s outstretched hand, to throw it in the turquoise water and make his wish. 

(Any occasion to make a wish, these days, he’ll take.)

As he turns his back on the fountain and closes his eyes, feeling David’s doting gaze on him and wondering what the fuck is happening for the fifteenth time in the span of less than two hours, Eggsy throws the coin behind his back and tries not to cringe too hard at his own desperation. 

_I wish he was mine._

Minutes later, as he's already in a rather hopelessly romantic mood, Eggsy absolutely falls for the flowers (and yet another fountain) at Piazza di Spagna. Once more, the city looks like it's hugging them, and the majestic stairs in front of them just seem to demand reverence.

“Up we go, then. C’mon.” David’s voice suddenly breaks the awestruck silence that has fallen between them. Eggsy turns to look at him, and receives another metaphorical punch in the gut when he meets David’s smiling and absolutely wicked baby blues.

“What do you mean, _up we go_? That’s about a gazillion steps, there, bruv. You seriously want me to work out on my day off?”

“What if I do, then, eh?” David teases, starting to walk in the direction of the stairs and looking behind himself at Eggsy, frozen on the spot like a petulant child. 

(He’s playing. This is all a weird, silly, flirty game. _But also, why the fuck does he have to keep looking at me like that?_ )

“You absolute traitor, David Budd. You owe me one,” Eggsy says, menacingly—but he’s smiling. Even his _eyes_ are smiling. David just nods in quiet understanding, looking a tad more expectant still. Eggsy joins him. “I hate you.” 

As they start walking up the stairs, David touches the small of Eggsy’s back again. This time, it feels different. _Protective_ , somehow. “It’s pretty up there, you know. Ye’ll thank me. But also, you can never be too careful: don’t know if ye realise how close to the Russie we are. Wouldn’t want tae bump into any of our friends from last night.”

*

**_Terrazza del Pincio, fifteen minutes later._ **

Despite all the huffing and puffing and complaining that Eggsy has done while they were climbing up the stairs at Trinità dei Monti, David can tell how happy the man is to have done it: the look on his face when he looks down at the splendour of Piazza del Popolo really is priceless.

“It’s so different, from up here,” Eggsy’s saying, enthralled, as he snaps picture after picture on his phone. 

“Knew you’d like it,” David replies, rather aware of how smug he’s sounding, but equally not giving half a toss.

“I was actually quite disappointed I didn’t get to look at it properly, last night,” Eggsy says, turning to beam at David.

 _Pretty sure John Catesby’s suite was supposed to have a view on the Piazza_ , David thinks. _But then I also suppose you weren’t exactly concerned by the view, in that moment, were you?_

“Glad we’re here now, then,” David reiterates, trying to suppress the ridiculous jealousy that has been eating at his insides, on and off, ever since he’s learned that Eggsy scored last night. Then, he has an idea. “Hey, want tae take a selfie and send it out to the bosses? You know—for old times’ sake?”

Eggsy chuckles and nods frantically. “Oh, yes, please.”

For the umpteenth time in the short span of less than 24 hours, David feels transported back to their crazy wee adventure in the Cairngorms. Huddling together, smiling giddy smiles, snapping a shot of themselves, then sending it out to both Hume and Merlin (separately, but with the same caption: _Thinking of you xxx_ )—it all feels so goddamn easy, like riding a bike (a _tandem_ , David’s idiot brain helpfully provides). Ultimately, he supposes, it mostly feels _right_ : the latest piece of information about Eggsy and Harry Hart not being an item, after all, has filled David with heaps and heaps of renewed confidence. 

(It is also threatening to make him spiral, get too excited, and most likely do something very, very stupid. But he’s trying not to think about that too much.)

“God, you’re a naughty one,” Eggsy comments, appreciatively, as soon as the messages to the handlers are sent out. David responds with a little shove, which Eggsy reciprocates. The childish game escalates quite quickly, until they’re both giggling like schoolchildren and, God damn, even leaning into each other a little bit.

“You—very beautiful couple!” David hears a heavily accented voice call out from behind them. He and Eggsy both spin round to meet the kind eyes of a middle-aged French woman, who’s obviously just assumed—

“We’re…” Eggsy starts, but cuts himself off. He looks a bit troubled, all of a sudden.

“Thank you, ma’am,” David fills in instead, ignoring his best instinct screaming at him that this is a very bad idea, indeed, and pulling Eggsy closer to him.

“You want photo? Je peux… take photo, of you?” she tries, gesturing for David’s phone, which he’s still clutching in his free hand.

He’s perplexed for a second, but he cottons on quickly enough. “Oh, that would be most kind of you, thanks!” He hands her the phone, then nonchalantly grabs Eggsy’s hand to drag him closer to the edge of the terrace. He can tell Eggsy’s confused, but he also looks extremely pleased with whatever the hell is going on.

The kind woman takes approximately a thousand pictures of them. In a couple, Eggsy even gets up on his tippy toes and plants a rather wet kiss on David’s cheek—like it’s something he does every day. Like it’s something they do. Like there’s a _they_ , at all. 

David thanks the woman again, then offers to return the favour. While he snaps a few shots of her and her extremely nonplussed-looking husband, Eggsy rests his head on David’s shoulder and whispers into his ear, “Gonna have to send me those pics, by the way. I need proof this has actually happened—to remind my future self that David Budd can indeed be spontaneous, sometimes.”

“Ha-ha,” David replies, trying to sound sassy but feeling his cheeks flush up irreparably. Luckily, Eggsy’s behind him. He can’t really see that.

Twenty minutes and a pleasant stroll under the trees at Villa Borghese Park later, Eggsy starts to complain about his feet hurting.

“You live in bloody London, mate—how on earth aren’t you used to walking at least this much?”

“Not exactly a tourist, in London, am I? Plus, the bloody Kingsman black cabs are _so_ convenient—and I’m getting rather old, you know.”

David scoffs. “I’m older than you, princess: do you hear me moaning and groaning about a few hours of slow walking?”

*

**_Piazza del Colosseo. 12:05 PM_ **

Ultimately, David does end up taking pity on Eggsy and calling a taxi to take them back to a more central area of the city.

“Hungry?” he prompts, after handing the driver a twenty-euro bill and thanking him profusely.

“Oh, hi, hello, the mind reader’s back, it seems,” Eggsy replies, his whole face lighting up all of a sudden—and it has nothing to do with the hard sun reflected from the light stones of the Colosseum. “Yes, indeed: _starving_.” 

“C’mon, then. I’ve got the perfect place in mind.”

When, after a three-minute walk, they get there, Eggsy looks so flabbergasted that David can’t quite tell whether he’s pleasantly surprised or just profoundly insulted. He elects to just stare at the bar’s rainbow signboard, then; as if he wasn’t up to anything, really. As if he hadn’t deliberately chosen a gay bar called _Coming Out_ for their lunch spot.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, David,” Eggsy says, pushing his sunglasses down his nose and looking at him, a mixture of (most likely fake) disapproval and mischief in his eyes.

“I mean—I did tell you I’d like tae take you to a gay bar one day, didn’t I?” David says, shrugging, way too amused to even try to look remorseful.

Eggsy takes off his sunnies entirely and gives him a side smirk. “Oh.” He pauses, looks at the signboard again. “Oh, is that what’s happening? I think I’m just going to enjoy a club sandwich and a pint, and you bring me here to strut my stuff—at bloody 12 PM? You’re a dirty, dirty man, David Budd.”

“ _Brunch_ , Eggsy: I’ve taken you here to have brunch. If you want to, as you so elegantly put it, _strut your stuff_ , I’m sure no-one in there will actually mind—but don’ bring _me_ intae this, eh?” David says, innocently as he can muster, pushing the door open and showing Eggsy in. 

“You’re _so_ full of shit, Wallace,” Eggsy replies, with a sassy flick of the head, but then happily walks into the bar all the same.

The waiter they get assigned can’t be more than twenty years old. He’s strawberry blond, skinny, gorgeous, just the campest little thing David’s ever met—and, fuck’s sake, he seems to have fallen in love with David. On a positive note, he speaks amazing English, and he helps them navigate through the brunch menu in an impressively effective way, despite the constant small fits he seems to be having every time David barely looks at him.

When they’re done with their meal and they ask for the bill, the waiter sheepishly hands it to David before all but flying back to his spot near the entrance, ready to welcome any potential newcomers—but absolutely turning every couple of seconds to check whether David might be looking. 

David sighs as he picks the bill up, and Eggsy immediately starts chuckling. 

“What’s so funny?” David asks, feigning ignorance, as he fishes into his pocket for his wallet and gestures to the waiter—who’s once more making big, deer-in-headlights eyes at him—for him to bring the card machine to the table.

“I think you might have broken another heart, Budd,” Eggsy says, smirking devilishly. “Turn that thing over.”

Eggsy, as it turns out, is right: a phone number is scribbled on the back of the bill, alongside a name, _Chris_ , and a small, black loveheart.

“Ah, shite,” David says, out loud, watching the boy make his way back towards their table with a giant, hopeful smile on his face. Right before he gets to them, Eggsy winks at David and mouths _I’ve got it, don’t worry_.

“Darling,” Eggsy starts, smiling up kindly at the boy and touching his forearm. _Oh, Christ, he’s off already._ “My mate here is a bit shy, so he asked me to tell you he really fancies you, and that he would _totally_ call you—but, unfortunately, he’s taken. But, hey, maybe _I_ can hit you up, next time I’m in town?” 

The waiter’s face goes through what looks like at least four different stages of embarrassment, each a different, vibrant colour—almost perfectly matching the food-colouring-extravaganza on the top of the rainbow cappuccinos they’re still drinking—then nods and smiles coyly down at the card machine, before handing it to David.

David cringes internally, inputs a €10 tip for the boy’s trouble, then swipes his card on the reader: thanks to contactless payment, it’s all over in less than three seconds. 

“Thank you very much,” the boy says, looking between Eggsy and David. “Oh, and, by the way—that was actually meant for _both_ of you. Have a good day, gentlemen,” he says, winking at them before he walks off again.

David stashes his card back into his wallet, takes the last sip of his cappuccino, then stares quizzically at Eggsy for a few beats. “What the fuck was that, eh?”

“Oh, c’mon, just a bit of fun. You really can’t help yourself, can you?” Eggsy says, shaking his head and chuckling.

“Help doing _what_ , exactly? Living and breathing in a normal social context?” David replies, incredulous, as Eggsy starts laughing a tad louder. “Also, please: what do you mean, I’m ‘taken’?”

Just as he’s asking this, David’s attention is diverted from Eggsy’s smiling face towards his phone, who’s just started buzzing.

_Fuck. It’s Charlie._

“Sorry, got tae take this, real quick, d’ye mind?”

Eggsy, who David can tell has absolutely managed to read the name on the screen, just grins and raises an eyebrow. “Not at all, go ahead.”

“Thanks,” David says, raising the phone to his ear and taking the call. “Hey, duck!”

“Daddy!” Charlie’s voice chirps out of the phone speaker. 

“How’s it goin’, mate?” David asks, meeting Eggsy’s gaze and finding him bemused, but in a smug sort of way.

“I’m good! I missed you, and Mummy said I could call you. When are you coming to see us, Daddy?”

David bites the inside of his lip as a wave of feelings— _guilt_ , it’s mainly guilt, really—washes through him. It’s like a very strong hand has just taken hold of his heart and it’s now squeezing it real tight.

“Soon, I promise. As soon as I can. I miss you too. Did you get the presents I sent you last week?”

The conversation continues for a bit—mainly a negotiation around David going to London as soon as he’s finished the ‘job’ he’s currently on, and how much both Charlie and Ella would like to go away with him for a bit over the summer. Even Vicky’s fine with it, apparently. David can barely believe his ears, and now he really, really wants this mission to be over sooner, rather than later.

On the other hand, though, saying goodbye to the mission will also mean saying goodbye to the gorgeous, infuriating man sitting in front of him, currently toying with the remains of colourful milk foam on the side of his empty coffee cup. And David isn’t sure he’s quite ready to do that, yet. In fact, he’s not sure he’ll ever be—but that’s a whole different story, he supposes.

“Alright, love, thanks for calling. Can’t wait tae see you. Say hi to the princess from me, eh?”

“Hiiiii Daddy!” David hears Ella’s voice call out, from further away.

“I love you both. Take care, love, see you soon.” He closes the call, then pockets his phone. His heart is beating very fast: he’s just taken a rather lengthy phone call from his kids in front of Eggsy—Eggsy, who doesn’t even know his kids _exist_. It’s a real big fucking risk to take, and yet this, like many things today, just feels right, for some reason. “Sorry about that, mate.”

“No worries at all,” Eggsy replies. He raises an eyebrow and grins more broadly. “And _that’s_ what I meant, by the way. Not that it’s any of my business, but how many people are you juggling, at the moment, you absolute Casanova?”

David almost chokes on the wee sip of water he’s just taken. As soon as he’s done coughing his lungs out—which Eggsy seems to find _very_ funny indeed—he retorts. “Ye’re right, it’s really none of your business,” he retorts, a tad sharper than he’d anticipated. “But also, what the _fuck_ are ye on about?”

“Ella? Charlie?” Eggsy prompts, clearly thinking he’s onto something. “...Julia?” he adds, after a brief pause.

David opens his mouth to retort, then realises what Eggsy’s just said and just groans, maybe a bit too loudly, burying his head in his hands. _Oh, for fuck’s sake: that’s what this is all about. It is true, what they say about ‘assuming’, isn’t it? We’re a couple of giant morons._

“Ella and Charlie are my kids,” David says, simply, without really thinking. 

Eggsy looks like he’s just been struck by lightning. He’s stuck with his mouth open for a couple of seconds, before he manages to let out some incoherent, stammering monosyllables. “Oh. Oh, right. Your… _right_. Of course.” He pauses. Swallows. “And…”

“Julia?” David finishes for him. “Well. Cannae say I’ve never… but one time was enough for her, apparently. Rightfully so—she really is too good for me.” He pauses, shakes his head and looks down at his hands. "I guess the bottom line is: I’m not _juggling_ anyone. I've been single for almost two years, Eggsy.”

The thunderstorm of emotions David can read on Eggsy’s face after he’s finished delivering his piece is remarkable. So remarkable, in fact, that David feels the uncontrollable urge to get up from his seat, walk around the table, and kiss him. Right then and there, in front of everyone. Until they’re both breathless.

He doesn’t. 

He definitely could. He probably _should_. But he doesn’t.

Eggsy just nods at him, looking slightly transfixed. He brings a hand up to his mouth, and starts pensively biting the knuckle of his index finger, eyes still piercing David’s. “Right,” he mutters, once again, muffled against his hand.

 _He’s not going to break_ , David realises. _This is unbearable. We need to get out of here, do something else—before I do something I’ll probably regret._

“Right!” David echoes, trying to sound confident and not like his heart is beating like African drums. “Now that ye’re all caught up, what do ye say: shall we continue our tour?” he suggests, picking up his sunnies from the table and resting them back on top of his head.

That seems to snap Eggsy out of it. Both his hands go back on the table, palms sprawled, and the look on his face is one of, for lack of a better word, determination. “Absolutely,” he replies, getting up from his chair. “Bring it on, Budd.”

*

**_Somewhere in the Roman Jewish Ghetto. 4:37 PM_ **

The afternoon seems to have flown right by. 

The Imperial Fora were mesmerising, and David Budd is single. 

The Vittoriano—a giant, fuck-off monument that the Italians raised to one of their first kings—is one of the most impressive sights Eggsy’s ever witnessed, and David Budd is single.

The secret cat colony stashed between Roman ruins at Largo Argentina (where tens of incredible people work to trap, neuter, and return stray cats to their natural environment) was one of the most wholesome, healing places Eggsy’s been in a while—and David. Budd. is. fucking _. single_.

Eggsy is ashamed, really. He’s sure he’s missed a lot of the fun facts David has been throwing at him all goddamned afternoon, because he’s been effectively busy imagining dropping everything he’s holding—the coffee he’s bought near the Pantheon, a few bags from souvenir shops, plus the remains of his dignity—in favour of winging it and trying to kiss David. 

He’s got a hunch David would kiss him back, too. He’d kiss David until his lips hurt. Against every possible surface they would come across.

“...and here’s another one!” David exclaims, pointing at something on the ground with a triumphant smile on his face.

Eggsy shakes himself a bit and focuses on what David’s showing him: it looks to be a brass-plated cobblestone, with a name inscribed on it. Eggsy has exactly zero clues why David is so excited about that. Eggsy also realises David has probably explained why this is interesting. Eggsy _really_ should be focusing.

“...Eggsy? You with us, mate?” David asks, waving a hand in front of Eggsy’s face as he’s staring vacuously at the brass cobblestone, desperately trying to make sense of the name, the surname, and the date on it—which don’t ring any bell whatsoever. It does say ‘Auschwitz’ on there, the only word not in Italian he can make out. He suspects it might be something about the Holocaust, and now he feels a little bit worse still for not listening more closely.

“Oh? Yeah, ‘m ‘ere, sorry. Just a bit…” he trails off again, because now he’s looking at David’s lips again. _Distracted_ is the word he’s looking for. 

“Tired of the treasure hunt?” David finishes for him, chuckling lightly. “Fair enough, mate. Hey, what about we seek out some gelato and go bask in the sun for a bit?”

*

**_Tiber Eastern River Bank. 5 PM_ **

In normal times, walking along this river would imply Eggsy getting obnoxiously excited about that one scene in _Spectre_ where Daniel Craig sped on this very bank in his godforsaken Aston Martin D10.

Today, however, as he’s holding a giant ice cream cone in his right hand and letting his left hang free along the side of his body, trying not to think too hard about, well, _anything_ really, it’s definitely not James Bond on his mind: it’s David. The way he’s turning his head left and right, grinning like an excited schoolboy, looking almost incredulous to be back in this magical place he seems to know so well and love so much. The way Eggsy can see his eyes smiling, even underneath the dark shades he’s wearing. The way his arms and face and the back of his neck have definitely started to redden a bit, his Scottish complexion obviously not bearing the hard Italian sun all that well. The way they’re walking almost unbearably close together, casually touching from time to time, shoulders and upper arms and knuckles grazing, although never—or perhaps always—on purpose.

They talk about everything. Like two old friends, catching up after years of not seeing each other. David finally tells him about his crazy life, down to the last, most excruciating detail. How he met his wife when they were both at uni, and got married way too young. How he was recruited by the British Army, who settled his school debt and shipped him off to the Middle East before he could see his first child come into the world. 

It turns out that, back in 2011—another kid and five years in the army later—he bumped into Agents Wishart and Comyn somewhere in Afghanistan, and more or less accidentally helped them take out a dangerous arms dealer. From there to his official recruitment into Clansman, less than eight months passed. He was a full-fledged agent by the end of 2012, but chose to keep his wife and kids in the dark about his real job, blaming his long absences on his military career. It was safer, that way.

Eggsy also learns that it all went tits up after London: an affair with Julia Montague that led to her violent death, David’s cover basically blown, his real name and face on national television—it was a humongous mess, and not only on the job side of things. David’s marriage went bust, as well. He moved back to Glasgow permanently, and continued to operate for Clansman. He was doing his utmost, given the state of his mental health, to disappear whenever he could. Away from his painful past, away from responsibilities, away from his home, his family—away from himself. Undercover work always was his best suit, he says. Eggsy knows for a fact how true that is.

“I’m doing much better, now, though,” David reassures him, after almost an hour of talking. His sunnies are off and, despite the weak smile he’s just managed, he looks a bit distraught. 

Eggsy realises he might have a similar look on his own face, so he quickly unfurrows his brow and gives David his most dashing smile. “Really glad to hear it. And it shows, for the record.”

David smiles back at him, this time more convincingly. One of his hands lands back on the small of Eggsy’s back as David stirs them around a corner and into an absurdly picturesque cobbled street. Eggsy should be getting used to these, he knows—but somehow, there’s something magical about this one.

“It’s mostly…” David starts, but trails off. Eggsy holds his breath as David’s hand lingers on him a bit more, thumb slotting into the dip of his lower back muscles. 

When he retracts it, Eggsy stops walking, then turns slightly to look him in the eye. “What, David? What is it?” he asks. He sounds a bit desperate. He’s perfectly aware, and he doesn’t give a fuck.

David shakes his head lightly, looks up to the sky, seems to be mentally cursing himself. When he meets Eggsy’s gaze once again, he looks bold, determined—if a tad tormented. He grips both of Eggsy’s forearms tight, fixes him with those unreal blue eyes of his, then speaks again.

“It’s you, Eggsy. _You_ made this happen.” 

He’s got actual tears in his eyes, now, and Eggsy feels a knot form in his throat in response. He wants to speak, ask what David means by that—but David is quicker, and once again reads his mind.

“There’s no easy way tae say this, so here goes: there have been many times, in the past year and a half, when I’ve regretted… You know. Wished it hadn’t been a blank round, that one time. I haven’t been well, fully myself, since that happened—and I thought I never would be again. It’s like I was stuck somewhere I had no idea how to get out of. And then you arrived, Eggsy. Out of bloody nowhere, _you_ came in, and turned everything I knew upside down. You pulled me apart, figured me out, then put me back together. Every piece in the right place.” His voice breaks, right at the end. He blinks, and one tear falls down his right cheek.

Eggsy bites down on his lower lip, trying very fucking hard to keep it together. 

“David, I…” He trails off. He finds he’s overwhelmed, can’t voice his thoughts properly—so he just reaches a hand up to David’s face, swipes the tear away with the pad of his thumb.

“I never knew how to say it before,” David swoops in again, more tears falling down his face now. “But now I feel like I can. I’m better than I’ve ever been, and it’s all on you. You, your infuriating frolics, and your stupid big heart. You keep me sane, Eggsy. _Thank you_.”

That’s when it clicks, for Eggsy, and that’s when it becomes way too real. He’s cupping David’s face in both palms, now, swiping away at his tears. David looks like he doesn’t know how to touch him, for a beat. Just slightly at a loss. 

Immediately after, however, Eggsy feels strong hands on each side of his waist, pulling him closer still.

Their foreheads gently bump together, and Eggsy’s vision goes blurry; two seconds later, he’s weeping too. He can barely think straight, his every nerve ending alight, wildfire running through his veins. _Is this it?_

Just as he’s wondering this, David pulls him into a hug. He plants a wet kiss on the side of his neck, right below Eggsy’s earlobe, then says it again. “Thank you.”

A new wave of emotions washes through Eggsy as he clutches David tighter, as tight as he can, and buries his face in that big, broad chest of his, biting down lightly on the soft, sweet-smelling cotton of his T-shirt to suppress one particularly loud sob. 

They’re stood like this, in the middle of a pedestrian street, so close it hurts, for what feels like several days—but most likely only is less than a minute. Eggsy takes a fleeting second to think what this might look like, to the outside world. Then, on cue, the outside world decides to let them know.

“ _Guarda ‘sti du’ froci…_ ” a man’s voice utters, somewhere behind him. 

Eggsy doesn’t understand, but David seems to: he goes very rigid, very quickly, and he untangles himself from the hug. Eggsy gets a look at him before he turns to face the source of the voice: he’s got _murder_ in his eyes.

“Hey, arsehole!” he calls out to the man a few feet ahead of them, with his back turned, unaware and uncaring. He doesn’t acknowledge David’s call, and he doesn’t stop walking. 

Eggsy can see David’s switch being flipped; he knows how it goes, by now. David might be doing better, sure, but…

“I’m talking to you, ye clarty bastard!” he shouts, louder this time. The man stops in his tracks and turns around, just enough for Eggsy and David to see his face. He’s smirking.

“You have a problem, _frocio_?” he says, in very broken, very accented English. And that word again. Eggsy doesn’t know that word but, judging by the effect it has on David, it can’t be anything good.

David walks up to the man in three, long, purposeful strides. He all but towers over the guy—David Budd, a statuesque, strong, thirtysomething god amongst men, versus a small, middle-aged, balding Italian bloke who looks like he enjoys beer a tad too much. David’s fists are clenched, his arms in tension along his body. The man turns around to face him fully, now—still wearing the same, infuriating smirk on his face.

“I do have a problem, aye,” David replies, growling, dangerous. “My friend and I would like you to apologise for what you just said to us.”

The man laughs, mockingly, then raises his hands to David’s chest, shoves him away. “Go to hell,” he says, spiteful, then turns round again and starts walking faster, away from David. For good measure, it seems, he spits on the ground next to him as he strolls on.

David catches up with him in less than three seconds. When he seizes the back of the man’s shirt in one hand, then grabs his shoulders and spins him around so they’re face to face again, Eggsy knows he can’t wait any longer to intervene. He runs up to them as quick as he can, closes a hand around one of David’s wrists, and tries to make him loosen his grip.

“Come on, David—it’s not worth it, eh?” he says, feeling David struggle against his grasp, feeling David’s pulse quicken underneath his touch.

“Listen your boyfriend, mate,” the man taints David a bit more, which only makes it worse, really. 

“No— _you’re_ going to listen to _me_ , y’wee shite,” David threatens, shaking the man’s shoulders a couple of times, still not letting go. Then, he raises a knee, which Eggsy knows he’s most likely going to try to land on the man’s privates.

Luckily, Eggsy’s quicker. He blocks the blow—David’s knee in his closed palm, pressing against it with all his strength. He meets David’s gaze, and he reads rage in those ocean eyes, with the faintest undertone of remorse.

“Get the fuck away from us while you can,” Eggsy advises the man, who’s wisely already backing off. 

When he’s made sure the offending arsehole is at a safe distance, Eggsy turns back to David. He finds him running a hand through his hair and breathing hard, eyes raised to the sky. 

“Fuck,” David sighs, sounding rather hopeless. Eggsy moves closer to him and touches his forearm, reassuringly.

“Why did you go off like that, David? What did he say to us?”

“He said ‘look at these two faggots’,” David replies, simply. “And, dunno about you, but I really don’ like homophobic cunts,” he adds, with a small, apologetic smile.

“That makes a lot of sense,” Eggsy replies, shaking his head and looking at his feet, not quite sure what to say. “And no, I don’t like homophobic cunts, either, obviously.” _But David. I really don’t want to see you getting hurt trying to defend our queer honour, either._

“I guess this is one of the downsides of Italy, for you. Happened to me a couple of times already—people will just call you out for being a buftie in public, here,” David says, matter-of-factly and a tad bitterly.

“And we weren’t even doing anything!” Eggsy protests, trying to lighten the mood. _I wasn’t even kissing you. Now, that would have been good._ To avoid spiralling too much and to channel this weird energy into something useful—currently, comic relief—he grabs David’s hand and looks him in the eye once more. “C’mon, then: let’s show these people, their Catholic Church, and their fragile masculinity how we British fairies _really_ do it.”

David chuckles, shakes his head, and starts walking with him. They don’t really speak. Eggsy can just feel David clutching his hand tighter, at some point, so he turns to look at him, an eyebrow raised questioningly.

“That’s what I meant, earlier. You being here for me, like this. It’s just…”

_Ugh. Fuck._

“You don’t need to thank me, David. It was my job, at the beginning, sure—but now it’s definitely my pleasure,” Eggsy cuts him off, grinning broadly. _You’re right about something, though: I am here for you. Always._

“But I want to thank you,” David replies, stubborn. “And I will. Tonight.”

Eggsy registers what David just said, and suddenly feels the embers of that fire from earlier crackling again, alight once more. “What’s happening tonight?” he asks, trying to lean on cheeky, not _eager_.

David just smirks down at him, squeezes his hand again. “You’ll see.”

*

**_Hotel Campo de’ Fiori, Rome. 7:55 PM_ **

Despite having temporarily moved to the coldest, wettest corner of the UK, Eggsy found himself incredibly prepared while packing for Rome and its notoriously kind weather. In fact, all he had to do was take his pick out of the embarrassingly big pile of new clothes he’s accumulated in the couple of months since he set foot in Scotland. Call it wishful thinking, call it yearning for a more temperate climate, call it simply getting bored out of his skull watching trash telly while waiting for David to come back from his evening gym sessions and opening the Topman website on his laptop instead. Call it whatever you like: Eggsy has done a disturbing amount of online shopping, lately, and tonight’s outfit is testament to that bad habit—that sometimes actually turns out to be a good one.

Cream-coloured trousers with a black, minimalistic wide checkered pattern. A white linen shirt, light and casual, loose enough to make his skin breathe through the heat of a Roman evening, but also perfectly fitted to put all his best features forward. Thr—no, _four_ buttons undone. Black belt, black loafers. A splash of that vetiver cologne he stole from Harry that one time (right after Harry had purchased it, actually), and that he ended up keeping and making his signature scent. Hair? Let it do its own thing. It usually looks okay.

Immediately after thinking that, he glances at himself in the mirror once again and has second thoughts: it does look okay, by all means, but tonight it’s not about that. Tonight, he’s going on a, can he even say it?, _date_ with his colleague, housemate, partner, whatever the fuck should Eggsy call him, these days. Anyways, David. The man for whom he most fucking definitely has— _breathe, Eggsy, it’s okay_ —feelings. He runs back into the bathroom, rummages for the hair wax inside his wash bag, and gets to work on hiding his obviously receding hairline as best as he can. 

As soon as he’s done, satisfied he can’t possibly look any better unless he manages to magically turn back time, or alternatively turn into Jude Law as Dickie Greenleaf (now, wouldn’t _that_ be convenient), he hears a knock on his door.

“Coming!” he chirps, smiling at himself in the mirror.

Behind the door, as it turns out, is a walking, living and breathing daydream. For a couple of seconds, Eggsy really has no idea where to look.

David is wearing this navy short-sleeved shirt, which is, there really is no other word for it, _obscenely_ unbuttoned. As a result, there’s obviously a lot of hair on show; it’s dark, curly, speckled with the occasional grey strands, and it’s just stunning. All Eggsy wants to do is bury his face in it, kiss that chest all over. He has to give himself a good pep talk about normal people behaviours to stop himself from doing that exact thing, in fact. 

David's face looks relaxed, no microexpressions betraying any kind of anxiety or worry: it’s probably the first time Eggsy’s ever seen David this completely peaceful. His hair is perfectly styled—a tad puffier than usual, Eggsy notices, it’s getting long—and his curls are combed through, still defined but unmistakeably more _proper_. _If it’s to make the streak pop, well, it’s bloody working._ The sly fucker absolutely knows what he’s doing.

And Eggsy finds he wants to tell him, too. He wants to be bold, tonight. He wants to tell David how fucking insanely good he looks—off-white ankle trousers ( _hair_ , Eggsy can see more hair peeking out, ankles, a touch of calf, fucking hell, David should wear revealing clothes way more often), a light brown belt that matches his leather shoes, and a shiny, expensive-looking watch on his wrist. He looks like he’s just popped out of a men’s fashion magazine—or fucking _Thunderball_. It’s really one or the other. Probably the latter.

“Evening,” is all Eggsy can muster, in the end, as he leans against the door frame with his arms crossed in front of his chest—all his wished-upon eloquence gone in a puff of smoke at the first shred of eye contact with David motherfucking Budd.

Staring. Eggsy’s staring. 

He knows he’s staring. 

_David_ knows he’s staring.

David is _pleased_ he’s staring.

“Good evening,” David replies, smoothly, with a half smile and an eyebrow raise. “Fancy seeing you here. What are the odds, eh?”

Eggsy goes from awestruck thirst to interested perplexion in two seconds flat. “Wha—”

“I mean,” David chuckles nervously, looks down at his shoes for a second, then immediately goes back to flashing the baby blues directly at Eggsy—and another mini heart attack follows. “I saw you standing by that fountain, earlier, taking pictures. Rome is a big place, and yet, here ye are. I know I’m being a bit forward, but I realised you were also staying here, and I… I had tae come check if, by any sort of miracle, you happened tae be free for dinner?”

_What the fuck is happening? Did he hit his head, or…?_

“But actually, sorry, where are my manners? I’m David. Nice to meet you,” he finishes, with a dazzling smile.

And that’s when Eggsy finally gets it. He feels like one of those dumb cartoon characters, realising what’s going on at last—proverbial lightbulb popping up over his head, and all that.

“Oh,” he lets out, surprised, shocked, completely and utterly captivated by the odd, twisted, and absolutely marvellous inner workings of David Budd’s mind. _This is roleplay. He wants us to do a bloody strangers roleplay—as if we hadn’t been in each other’s space, non stop, for three whole months._

Oh, well.

“Hi, David. Nice to meet you too, I’m…” he hesitates for a second. He always seems to, these days, way too used to making up elaborate fake identities on the spot. But he doesn’t need a mask, with David. He never has, really. “I’m Gary, but please, call me Eggsy. Everyone does.”

David’s whole face lights up. Eggsy can read it in his eyes, the astonishment and the gratitude that Eggsy is actually going along with his bizarre idea for their—yes, now he’s definitely allowed to say it— _date_. His smile widens. He bites the inside of his lip. Eggsy tries not to fixate on how much he’s blinking, stupid ocean eyes distracting him from his new acting task.

“And, well, gorgeous, it’s your lucky day, it seems: I am, in fact, free for dinner,” he delivers, with a wink. “Shall we, then?”

*

**_Via dei Fienaroli, Trastevere, Rome. 8:18 PM_ **

The short walk through the busy, picturesque streets of Trastevere is spent making flirtatious small talk and just generally adjusting to this weird scenario that David thought up to make tonight an actual, proper first date, and that Eggsy is miraculously just going along with, without asking any questions. 

If he had to justify it, David would probably say that this pantomime is needed, in a way, to sweep away any residual awkwardness between them. One could argue they’ve maybe gotten a tad too close for comfort, once or twice, in the past few months, and that the general giant emotional baggage that David somehow thought it appropriate to dump on the poor man could potentially have created some unwanted tension over pasta and wine—and that’s really, really not what David wants to happen. 

Tonight, he’s turning this whole thing around. Tonight, he’s finally saying ‘thank you’ properly.

Tonight, he’s pulling out all the stops—yes, including this ridiculous Orlebar Brown shirt that Julia got him, a month ago, that she says makes him look like Sean Connery from one of the first Bond movies. Not sure which one, doesn’t care, really, but the look on Eggsy’s face as soon as he opened the door, earlier, definitely proved Julia right. ( _Damn_ , but also, _thank God_ ). And yes, also including this fuck-off IWC Schaffhausen watch that he bought with his first Clansman paycheck, after an unbearably long and idiotically dangerous undercover mission in Belize. A watch that he never uses but that, when he does, makes him feel like a filthy rich, successful businessman. Solid confidence, complete with a Swiss movement. Just what the doctor ordered.

He takes advantage of the brief pause in the conversation to stop, ugh, _ogling_ at Eggsy (discreetly exposed chest, lightly tanned skin peeking out of his breezy linen shirt, perfect hair, that otherworldly lower body of his, deliciously stretching out each and every line on his checkered trousers, _fuck_ ), and surreptitiously glance at said timepiece. 8:21, and he can see the restaurant in the distance. _Perfect timing._

“Fancy watch, by the way,” David hears Eggsy observe. He raises his gaze from the watch to meet Eggsy’s eyes once again. He’s smirking. “Does it do anything special?”

David grins. “Apart from setting you back several grand and telling the time? No, not really. Does yours do anything special?” he asks, nodding at Eggsy’s Kingsman-issue smart watch. He knows what it does already, obviously, but this is way too fun.

“Darling,” Eggsy replies, in that camp tone he adopts sometimes, the one that automatically makes David at least 25% more attracted to him, without failure. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

David raises an eyebrow. “Would ye want to, though?” he asks, raising one eyebrow.

“Oh, no, I’d be devastated to have to do it. Having to pay for me own dinner, imagine that? Having to go look for _another_ GQ model-type, at such short notice,” he says, with a dramatic eye roll, as if that was his day-to-day, extremely tedious occupation. “That really wouldn’t work, now, would it? You’d better stop asking about my watch, then, I reckon.”

David chuckles, shakes his head. “Duly noted,” he says, with a wink. Eggsy just beams, the residual golden light from the sunset sky reflecting on his face and making him look, if possible, even more breathtaking.

So much so, in fact, that, as they’re approaching the restaurant at last, David feels the irrepressible urge to just touch him. He’s tried this a few times already, today—this light, delicate graze of his palm over Eggsy’s lower back; this grounding, soft brush of fingers over the tight muscles there, just above his glutes. That’s what he does, as soon as they come to a halt in front of the restaurant and wait for someone to welcome them in: he adheres his palm to the small of Eggsy’s back, and very subtly also strokes it with his thumb. Eggsy leans into his touch, arches his back the tiniest bit, like a content cat—and David wonders, for a second, why he’s even bothering with dinner at all, when there are so many more interesting activities they could get up to, presently, that would involve a bed, no clothes, and a great deal more of this whole _touching each other_ palaver.

_But anyways. Here comes a waiter._

“Buonasera, signori, good evening!”

“Good evening,” David greets the man in the black apron, with a cordial smile.

“Do you have a reservation, sir?” he asks, cheerful and accented.

“Yes, we do. The name’s Budd. David Budd.” 

He hears it as soon as he says it. He feels Eggsy’s amused gaze burn a hole into the left side of his face. He knows this one is definitely going to come back to bite him in the butt.

Sure enough, as soon as they’re settled at their table on the patio and they’ve ordered their _aperitivo_ —several fried bits and bobs, plus two Campari Spritz—Eggsy thinks it appropriate to bring it back.

“Funny, that—I thought you’d only drank Martini,” he says, from above the menu he’s browsing, just his eyes visible, and pure mischief in them. “ _Shaken, not stirred_ , was it?”

“Ach, come on, I swear I didnae do it on purpose,” David replies, in a smaller voice than usual, feeling himself blush furiously.

Eggsy laughs, moving the menu out of the way so David can see his face properly. “You really should, you know. You can afford it. I don’t know if it’s really news for you, David, but you are a regular Bond, indeed. Gods, I bet you’d look _good_ firing a gun. Ever done that?” he asks, smirking.

 _Oh, you cheeky shit._ “No, actually, never. Have you?”

“Ah, well,” Eggsy replies, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I had this boyfriend, once. He showed me how.”

David feels a lion roar inside his chest. “Did he? And how was it?” he asks, barely aware of how tightly he’s gripping the side of the menu. Eggsy, apparently, doesn’t miss that: his gaze flickers to David’s white knuckles, then back to his face. _He’s too good at this game._

“Great, for a while. But don’t worry: he’s not really in the picture, anymore.”

Even as he thinks, _you’d better remind him of that, whenever you have five minutes_ , David relaxes again. “That’s great tae hear, ‘cause I’m not sure if I’d be up for sharing, honestly. Not really that kind of bloke.”

Eggsy actually, honest-to-God gasps, at that. His eyes go a bit wide, and his cheeks flush pink. “Really?” he asks, barely a whisper. Then, he seems to get his wits back. “There’s, um, _a lot_ of me, you know,” he says, gesturing up and down his own body, as if to make a point. “Might want some help with it.”

David rolls his eyes. _Does he really think that he’s big?_ “Don’ need any help whatsoever,” he replies, confidently. “I really like what I see. When I first saw you, I… just couldn’t stop staring. Thank God ye didn’t notice—I might have made a wee bit of a fool of myself.” This is all, for the record, absolutely true. Roleplay David might be talking about a fortuitous encounter by a Roman fountain, while Real Life David is thinking of busting Eggsy trying to penetrate Clansman HQ from a skylight, but the fact is he really _couldn’t_ stop staring, even back then. He would never have pulled that daft knife stunt on anyone he wasn’t obscenely attracted to.

Eggsy blushes a tad more, but looks more pleased than flustered, this time. “Aren’t you a smooth talker, David,” he says, appreciatively. “If it wasn’t clear: I really like what I see, too. Please tell me there’s no-one in your life, either. I’d be _devastated_.”

There’s a brief interruption as the waiter comes back with their drinks and an assortment of positively filthy-looking fried goods. As Eggsy picks up his glass, David replies to his question. “Nae, no-one on my side, either. Just a coupl’a bairns—but they don’ bite, I promise.”

Eggsy smiles and nods in assent. “Shall we raise our glasses to that, then?”

“To what, exactly?”

“To ‘not having to share’. And to you, uncommonly gorgeous man, spreading the good genes.”

They toast, glasses full of bright red liquid and ice cubes clinking together, the smell of _supplì_ and fried courgette flowers filling the air between them, and David feels happier than he has in forever.

The main course, for both of them, inevitably turns out to be spaghetti carbonara. The wine is a lovely Bardolino, and the music comes from a street musician in the corner, who’s singing old Italian tunes. The food is amazing, and the conversation is easy. Eggsy actually opens up, for the first time since that fecking therapy session with Hume and Merlin, when David so dickishly shut him down. He tells David about his childhood, his difficult teenage years, his mum and his sister. How difficult it was to cope, in school, and how hard he had to fight for a decent place in the world. 

Harry Hart, David realises, was (and maybe still is, in a way) a sort of personification of good karma, for Eggsy. Not that his name, or Kingsman, for that matter, are ever brought up. It’s been pretty clear since the beginning of this weird, crazy night that ‘shop talk’ was one hundred percent off the table, and that it was going to be all about them: two men who fancy each other to bits, having a romantic spot of dinner. 

Normal stuff. Normal people. A normal date. 

It’s unreal, for David, to feel _normal_ again. To finally be able to talk about himself as a David Budd: the Man, and not David Budd: the Dangerous Superspy. To share stories from his reckless uni days, to talk movies and music, to show Eggsy _photos of his children_. To graze Eggsy’s fingers as he hands him the phone, and to linger for a second, because it just feels right to do it.

The light buzz of the alcohol is pleasant: he’s tipsy, full of delicious pasta and wine—and he still says yes when Eggsy suggests they share a tiramisù. One plate, two spoons. Like a couple. 

The bill comes with a complimentary shot of _digestivo_ ; David waves off both the limoncello and Eggsy’s desperate attempts to slip the waiter his credit card. Eggsy sulks for the whole of five seconds, then stashes his wallet back into his pocket, takes both shots, and just smiles at him—an ecstatic, slightly absent sort of smile that makes David want to teleport them both to a more private place, immediately.

“Thank you, David,” he says. Somehow, David knows he’s dropped the roleplay.

“No, Eggsy: thank _you_. Least I could do, really.” _I just bought you dinner, for fuck’s sake: you gave me my life back._ David goes to stand up, then, and holds out his hand. “Let’s get out of here, eh?”

*

**_Somewhere in Trastevere, beautifully lost. 10:37 PM_ **

The stroll is slow and romantic, but there is a sort of urgency in both his and David’s strides that is impossible not to notice. The fierce grasp of David’s hand in his, the way he continuously glances left and right, the way he’s fallen a bit quiet, all of a sudden. Eggsy thinks he knows this look in his eyes—determination, is what it is. Determination, and anticipation. It’s so thick, this thing between them. 

After an incalculable amount of time, he feels David squeeze his hand more tightly still, then tug on it, steering them away from the main street into a side alley. It’s narrow, cobbled, and gorgeous like all the others; unlike all the others, however, it seems to be completely deserted. It’s just them a few bikes, pink and red geraniums on balconies, and a tabby cat.

David picks up the pace once again, moving with purpose towards what looks to be the only corner where orange street lights don’t seem to shine. Eggsy’s heart is beating in his throat, and he follows David blindly. Before he realises, his back is against a warm brick wall, and David is in front of him—so close, it almost hurts. His eyes are wide, uncharacteristically dark. He looks troubled.

“Hey,” Eggsy says, in what he hopes is a soothing tone. For good measure, he touches David’s chest: his heart seems to be trying to beat its way out of his ribcage. _Fuck._

_Fuck._

“Hey,” David replies, serious, covering Eggsy’s hand on his chest with one of his, and bringing his free hand on the wall, near Eggsy’s face. “I realise how this looks, and I… I don’ wanna hide, it’s just…” he shakes his head, his expression a bit dark, all of a sudden. “You saw what happened, earlier: it’s a bit complicated, here.”

“I don’t care about that, David,” Eggsy replies, a surge of emotions hitting him. He grips David’s shirt, pulls him closer. “All I need is this, anyways. _You_ , like this.” 

That seems to hit David hard. He relaxes a bit, stepping closer and cupping Eggsy’s jaw in one of his big hands. “It’s _perfect_ , here. I wish we could stay forever.”

The silence in the alley is complete, and all Eggsy can see, hear, smell, feel is David. 

David, his eyes full of something Eggsy can’t quite put his finger on: a look he’s seen before, on someone else, once upon a time, and that he’s been looking for ever since.

David, his strong body crowding him against this ancient wall, grounding him, letting him know he’s safe. The kind of presence that says _it’s okay, I’ve got you_.

David, the frantic beat of his heart and his slightly parted lips, close, so close, so—

When they come together, it’s like an explosion. Eggsy hears himself exhale in relief, breathing out the air he didn’t even know he’d been holding in, as he clings to David and starts breathing him in. They kiss as if their lives depended on it, mouths immediately parting and hands roaming, pressed as close as they can, Eggsy at David’s mercy and perfectly okay with it. He’s never been this okay before, in fact. He’s never _felt_ like this.

David bites him. Gently. A grazing of teeth on Eggsy’s lower lip, his hand on the side of Eggsy’s neck for leverage, a low, guttural noise escaping his mouth. That’s when Eggsy opens his eyes, and finds David staring back at him. He looks just as hungry and desperate as Eggsy feels, and it’s just—

“Fuck, look at you,” David breathes, his voice hoarse and shaky. “You’re unreal. The things I want to do to you.”

Eggsy is momentarily speechless. Feeling so cherished, so wanted, so _adored_ is overwhelming. He hopes his eyes are speaking for him. He hopes David hears it. _You can do anything you want to me. I’m yours._

David grunts as their lips crash again. It’s a loud, rather animalistic noise that makes Eggsy weak at the knees. Knees that David, on cue, is pushing apart with one of his legs, grinding on him now, slow and intense— _hard, he’s hard_ , Eggsy’s brain helpfully provides, as he feels both of David’s hands cup the sides of his neck, thumbs kneading near his Adam’s apple, light but possessive. It’s wonderful, a thousand times better than he ever imagined it would be: it’s like David already knows how to handle him, what to say to make him melt, which buttons to press, _everything_.

Eggsy’s lost, completely and utterly gone, because David is now actually kissing the crook of his neck and whispering _I want you_ against his skin, and his hands are moving again, one of them settling on Eggsy’s butt, and David’s cock definitely is hard, his hips moving to create friction against Eggsy’s thigh. It is very odd, when he feels a light vibration in the vicinity of David’s hand on his chest, but his brain doesn’t really register it, at first.

When David abruptly stops kissing him, however, and it suddenly feels like someone is pressing ‘pause’ in the middle of the climax of an epic movie, that’s when he realises: it’s David’s _fingertip_ that just buzzed.

“Christ,” David exclaims, taking a step away from Eggsy and looking down at his hand, mildly horrified. Eggsy can see his index finger is actually shaking, now, and there’s an orange blinking light on its tip. _What the fuck is that?_ “No, c’mon, why? Why _now_?” David asks, to no-one in particular.

Eggsy is alarmed—this really doesn’t look normal. “What the hell is happening, David? Did someone plant that thing on you? Is that some kind of intracutaneous bug, or summat?”

David curses again, this time in a language Eggsy doesn’t know or understand. He rubs his face with both hands, spins around on the spot once. 

“Well?” Eggsy asks again, impatient. 

“No, it’s okay—just HQ calling. At the _worst_ possible time. Fuck, _fuck_.” Eggsy sees him press his thumb and index finger together, and then his eyes glaze over: he actually looks like he’s in a trance. “Aye, Andrew, what do you want?”

Eggsy doesn’t hear what Hume has to say, because the conversation distinctly looks to be taking place inside David’s head. He can see David’s face go through a palette of emotions, however. In the brief couple of minutes he’s on the phone for, he shifts from annoyance, to anger, to surprise, to utter despair.

“Alright, copy that,” he says, sounding and looking completely resigned. Then, he seems to hear something else, something that makes him lose his temper again. “No, I—I said it’s _alright_ , Andrew, fuck’s sake! We’re on our way. Tell Randy we’ll meet him in an hour.”

He pinches his fingers together once more, and his eyes go back to normal. He just stares blankly at Eggsy for a few beats, mild despair and something else on his face. _Regret_? Eggsy sure fucking hopes it’s not that.

“What the fuck was that, David, eh?” Eggsy can’t help but ask, grabbing David’s hand and turning it over, examining it over the feeble street light. Nothing seems to be there, over or under his skin. The technology looks perfectly seamless. He looks up at David, seeking explanations. 

David just shakes his head, retracts his hand. “Something you shouldn’t have seen, I guess. It’s… No, sorry, I really shouldn’t.”

Eggsy groans. “Fucking hell, what’s gotten into you? Okay, fine, don’t tell me, then,” he blurts, frustrated and distraught. _This isn’t even remotely over, though, I hope you bloody know it._ “I guess what you _should_ tell me is what the fuck Hume wants with us, all of a sudden. He said we were good to stay here, at least until tomorrow?”

“That doesn’t seem tae be the case anymore. Julia’s out of the woods in Thailand—she’s been since around lunchtime today, apparently. So, they deployed some resources back home and, thanks to the tap ye put on yer posh fuck's phone last night, they think they've managed to locate the escaped lab technician,” he says, sharply. For an incredible win (at least as far as the mission is concerned), David’s sure sounding more bitter than pleased, right now. And well, to be fair, Eggsy feels the same way. “Anyways. Andrew wants us back home ASAP: he’s sending a plane for us tonight. They need us at the shop tomorrow morning, then back in the field to retrieve the cure for the bites.”

“But what about…” Eggsy starts, then realises he’s saying it out loud and has to cut himself off. _But what about tonight? What about this thing that was about to finally fucking happen?_ He closes his mouth, breathes out through his nose, then blinks once, twice. Resets himself. Back to the drawing board, then. Back to _fucking_ work, eh? “Right. Of course. That’s great news, about the lab tech,” he says, trying not to sound too glum, and probably failing miserably. He rests his head and back against the wall, sighing loudly.

“Aye. Great news,” David echoes. He takes a step closer, then, and Eggsy dares to hope that this isn’t really happening. That they’re going to go straight back to whatever they were doing before they got caught in this godforsaken perfect storm. That David is going to kiss him again, sweep him off his feet, and make it all better.

He really looks like he’s going to, for a fleeting moment. Raises both hands, cups Eggsy’s face, brings their foreheads together. 

“Eggsy,” he whispers, feebly.

“David.”

David’s grip tightens a bit. “I…” He bites his lip. He looks extremely conflicted.

He looks like he’s struggling to find the words, so Eggsy decides to help out. “It’s okay. Later. We’ve got time.” _And an entire flat, that we’ve been sharing for months._ He’s just figuring it out himself, as he’s saying it. It really is okay. It might not be a fancy baroque hotel in Rome, their wee Glasgow flat, but it’ll do. It’ll _definitely_ do. 

David nods, understanding in his eyes. “Yes. Later,” he murmurs, so close now that Eggsy can feel his breath, hot and heavy, graze his skin. 

“David,” Eggsy pleads, his voice no more than a sigh. “We need to go.”

“Shut up,” David growls, catching his lips in another fierce kiss that takes his breath away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAHHHHHH you've made it till the end, congratulations! How much do you hate me for this new cliffhanger? How much???
> 
> I hope you enjoyed taking a glimpse into the future of this heartbreaking romance that, lest we forget, is still blossoming.
> 
> I also hope you enjoyed all the pictures, and that they helped to set the mood a bit. Also, in case you were curious, here is the boys' itinerary before lunch:
> 
> and here is where they go after lunch:
> 
> Their restaurant is [this one](https://allefratteditrastevere.com/) (the website is utter rubbish, but I can assure it's a cute and very romantic place to go to for dinner).
> 
> I want to give a major shoutout to my favourite human, [soft_science](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_science), for helping me out with the outfit choices and for letting me bend his ear about this entire extravaganza since the very first lines I managed to actually write. Thank you, I could not have done this without you. This, and, you know. Everything else.
> 
> Folks, I'll see you in two weeks for the aftermath of this huge Italian adventure, and our favourite quartermaster's prompt cockblock. Be there or be square. <3
> 
> Love, 
> 
> C xx


	16. XIII. Morsus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He sits on a bench and dials Kingsman HQ. He needs to escalate this to Merlin, pronto.  
> “Eggsy?” a voice replies, after barely two rings, and Eggsy’s breath is cut off again.  
> Fuck. Wrong number. He just swiped for fast dial, and got it oh so dramatically wrong. Left is Merlin, right is—  
> “Harry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely people! We're back.
> 
> Not many PSAs, this week. This is a bit of a shorter one, but I'm so so glad you get to read on, because the plot really thickens from here. Last time I saw you, the boys took things to the next level. This time round, they have to deal with the Master of Cockblock himself, Hume, and a rather, ahem, _thorny_ situation.
> 
> As per uz, we have **[a wee playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0xtzLCo8ClAjh1zxiAD0vu?si=oI3wtc2KQci3FZKCbBLUvQ)** that you can listen to while you read. Music really helped me out, here. These songs, and of course [soft_science](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_science), who was my rock during this weird beat I hadn't quite figured out on my own.
> 
> Alright, we ready? Let's go. See you later!

_**XIII. Morsus** _

**_Glasgow Airport, 3:12 AM._ **

Usually, Eggsy has absolutely no problem with flying. He enjoys it quite a bit, in fact: the comfort of the Kingsman private jet—a nap on one of the cosy armchairs during domestic trips, one or two or four Martinis on long-haul ones, even a cheeky shag with Harry, sometimes (when that was still happening). 

Except, fucking hell, the plane that Beloved Clansman Pilot Randolph has shown up in, three-odd hours ago in Fiumicino, definitely isn’t the Kingsman jet. It's a battered old thing, probably from the 80’s—all the _good_ ones were still on their way back from Thailand, apparently—and every most insignificant bit of turbulence that it got through while on its way to Glasgow felt like getting caught into a fucking tornado.

That, in turn, meant that Eggsy and David had to stay well strapped into their seats for the entirety of the flight time, sitting far enough from each other to make any kind of physical contact virtually impossible, and don those weird intercom helmets like one usually has to wear on helicopter rides to talk to each other (yeah, the plane was _that_ old and the flight was _that_ turbulent). To add insult to injury, only one channel was available, and Randolph was naturally looped in: hence, no privacy. No chance for Eggsy and David to discuss whatever the fuck just happened between them, and absolutely no chance to go over what could happen once they got safely back to the flat. 

In their ears, therefore, for the entire flight, there’s just Randolph, randomly chirping on about his wife and the _amazing_ new experimental treatment she has been put in to try and counter the horrible-sounding course her pregnancy was on. And climate change, of all things. _Which is really bloody weird, all things considered, but not really my problem; or, at least, not tonight._

In short: a fucking nightmare, and by far the longest three and a half hours of Eggsy’s life.

The cab ride from the airport has them mercifully sitting next to each other in the backseat—but the driver, like Randolph, is also Clansman staff, and they can’t reasonably start to kiss or get grabby, which really is just another layer of woe and frustration that Eggsy can see painted on David’s face, and that he knows for a fact is transparent from his own expression too. 

And then, well. When they drive past the giant Hilton near the motorway and, instead of cruising on towards Hillhead, the driver takes the exit towards the city centre, Eggsy really feels like the universe is playing some kind of weird trick to keep him and David apart.

“What’s ‘appenin’, guv? Why’re we taking this exit?” he can’t help but ask. David squeezes his hand and gives him a sweet but definitely concerned smile.

“Hume’s orders, sir. Agent Wallace is wanted at the shop, urgently. I shall drive you home as soon as we drop him off,” the driver replies, coolly.

Eggsy turns to face David properly, dread filling him. David doesn’t look like he’s doing any better.

“What’s this about, Connor?” David inquires, leaning in the space between the two front seats to get closer to the driver and clutching Eggsy’s hand tighter still. “Hume hasn’t mentioned anything to me.”

“Last-minute emergency, sir. I’m afraid I wasn’t given any more details on the matter.”

“ _Just_ Agent Wallace?” Eggsy asks, hyper aware of how petulant he sounds but not really giving a toss.

“Those are the instructions, sir.”

“Right, right. Very well,” Eggsy replies, resignedly, turning to face David and feeling the knot in his throat tighten again. 

*

**_Bath Street, Glasgow. 3:30 AM._ **

Five minutes and a very supercharged silence later, the cab pulls over and David’s car door is open. “I’ll see ye at home, then, eh?” he says, and Eggsy can hear him trying to sound chipper and failing miserably. And then he has an idea.

“D'you know what, Connor? It’s such a beautiful night. I think I’d rather walk home.” He opens his own door onto the street and circles the car to talk to Connor in front of his window.

His brow furrows. “Are you sure, sir?”

“Of course! Positive. You do have a key, don’t you, old boy?”

“I most definitely do, sir.”

“Then it’s settled: please, let yourself in and leave our luggage at the flat. It’s not that long a walk, and I’d rather breathe some fresh Scottish air after that fucking nightmare of a flight.”

Conor looks puzzled for a second, but then nods in agreement. 

“Very well, sir. Have a good night, Agents,” he says, before rolling up his window. Eggsy taps twice on the side of the car, and he and David watch it drive off into the night.

“What…?” David asks, but Eggsy’s already dragging him by a hand, running to get around a street corner, then a second one, until they get to the Bath Street back alley. It’s unlit and shady, bin bags everywhere and a couple of rats running around—top class, really, _exactly_ like Trastevere. But it’ll have to do.

Eggsy looks left and right, making sure no-one they might know is around and that they’re fully under cover of darkness. When he’s positive that everything’s in order, he gives David a meaningful look and pins him to the nearest wall, his palms on David’s stubbly jawline, mouths and tongues desperately searching and finding each other. It’s like it was before, and it’s better. It’s like they’ve been struck by lightning multiple times and haven’t had the chance to release the built-up electricity. It’s loud moans and wandering hands and pent-up yearning for each other’s touch, all coming together in a perfect storm.

Unfortunately, after what feels like way too little time, the steamy makeout session ends. It’s David who pulls away first. Eggsy groans, bites his lower lip to try and retain him, but David insists. He’s right, of course. He has to go, they have to put another giant pin into this. But also—

“What the fuck, David,” Eggsy whispers, hands bunching up the light cotton of David’s shirt, still unmercifully unbuttoned despite the considerable temperature change. Still in _Dolce Vita_ mode, flippin’ heck. “What the fuck does Hume want with you at this hour, and why won’t he leave us alone.” He’s fully aware he just sounded whinier than he’d meant to, but he can’t really help himself.

David cups his jaw and leans down to kiss him again, looking extremely conflicted, even maybe a tad pissed off. Eggsy gets it: he’s _majorly_ pissed off too. 

“I have no fecking clue, Eggsy. Easiest and fastest way to find out, and potentially getting this over with, is going in and asking.”

“And I can’t come in… why, exactly?”

David shrugs. He takes one of Eggsy’s hands, entwines their fingers, places a kiss on the back of it. Eggsy mentally swoons several times over. “There must be a reason, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked just for me specifically. I trust him, Eggsy. He knows best.”

 _And you’re clearly not used to ever questioning him._ “Sure, whatever. I just thought…”

“Hey,” David interrupts, pulling him in for yet another (sadly) chaste kiss. “I know. Me too. Let me deal with this, eh? I’ll be home before you know it. I waited months for you, I’m not letting you go now. Okay?”

Eggsy meets his eyes, serious and frowning and full of lust. “Yes. Okay, alright. Hurry, though?”

David’s expression softens considerably, until he’s fully beaming down at Eggsy. “Of course, you impatient wee monster.” They kiss again, deep and long and full of promises, this time.

_Soon. Soon._

*

**_Shared Hillhead flat, Glasgow. 4:15 AM._ **

When he gets home, exhausted but buzzing, Eggsy takes a brief shower. He steals the last of David’s shower gel, low-key hoping to get punished for it. He rummages in David’s closet for one of his army shirts, the ones that make him unexplainably hard—the mere _thought_ that David actually was in the army apparently has a miraculous effect on his dick, go figure—and puts it on. No pants, of course. Extremely redundant, given the circumstances.

Then, he gets a stupid idea, and he decides to light fucking tealight candles. All around the flat. Kitchen, living room, corridor, bedroom. David’s bedroom. It’s bigger, and the sheets smell like him. He gets on the bed, trembling with anticipation.

 _You almost done?_ he types with his glasses, considering whether he should attach a dick pic and immediately deciding against it. _Best keep it classy for now. There’s all the time in the world, for that._

Ten minutes later, still radio silence from David, but vintage Arctic Monkeys songs are playing all the same. His favourite album, the one with that song about masturbation and that other one about being promoted to one’s knees.

By the time _Dangerous Animals_ morphs into _Secret Door_ , his legs are spread open and he’s got one extremely well-lubed finger up himself. By the time the song is over, he needs another. 

What he really needs, of course, is David. Where the _fuck_ is David?

 _Come home_ , he sends out. _Need you_ , in another message. Finally, _ready for you_ , in the last one, with a selfie attached—his naked stomach, a hand strategically positioned to hide his cock. 

_Fuck_ , David sends back, and Eggsy thinks he’s finally won. Why didn’t he think of that earlier?

_Yeah?_

_No, I mean—fuck, I can’t come home now. I was about to text you that I’ll see you at the shop tomorrow._

Eggsy chuckles. What a fucking tease. _Sure, Budd. Very funny. Now get back here and stop fucking around, eh?_

A call comes in, just then. Still smiling giddily, still lazily tugging on his now quite painful dick, Eggsy taps on the side of his glasses with the index finger of his free hand and takes it. 

Audio call only. Shame.

“Hey, stranger. Where are you? Gettin’ a bit desperate, here…”

“Eggsy, I…” David sounds uncertain. Sad. “I’m up at the distillery, medical ward.”

“You _what_?” Eggsy gets to a sitting position, lightning-fast. “Did something happen? Are you alright?”

“Aye, I’m fine, all good, it’s… It’s Julia. She got shot. She lost a lot of blood, and now she’s in critical conditions. They say she might not make it. I…”

“You have to stay there,” Eggsy interrupts. “Of course you do. I get it. Don’t worry, David.” _I would do the same, if it was Roxy._ “Stay with her. I’ll see you tomorrow.” His tone is flat, but friendly. He’s trying his fucking best not to let sheer disappointment transpire.

“I’m so sorry, Eggsy,” David says, sounding crestfallen. “I want you like I’ve never wanted anyone before.”

That cuts off Eggsy’s breath for a second. “Really?” he whispers, in a very weak voice, as he lies back down on the bed.

“Really,” David replies, firmly. “Tomorrow, okay? I’ll see ye tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

“And you’ll be good for me? Wait for me?” David prompts, which effectively sets Eggsy’s entire body on fire. 

“Fuck,” Eggsy breathes. “I mean, yes. _Yes_ , I will. I’ll wait for you. Not going anywhere, promise,” Eggsy replies, closing his eyes and picturing the implications of _tomorrow_ and _being good_ for David quite vividly indeed. 

Somehow, he can _hear_ David smile at the end of the line. “Good. Good… Goodnight, Eggsy,” he says, after a brief pause.

“Goodnight, David.”

The line goes dead. Eggsy takes off his glasses and rubs his clean hand across his face. “Fucking hell,” he says, out loud. 

He ends up rising from the bed, after a few minutes of self-pitying. He blows on thirty-odd tealights, thinking he’d much rather have been blowing on something else, then takes another shower (cold, glacial) and gets back to the same bed he was on before. David’s.

 _Bloody hell. Tomorrow, then_ , he thinks, as he drifts off in David’s sheets, all alone but full of hope. _Tomorrow._

*

**_MacGregor and MacDuff Kiltmakers, Bath Street, Glasgow. 10:35 AM._ **

Earlier this morning, waking up in David’s bed (needy, hard and oh so dramatically alone), and having to go to _work_ on top of everything, felt to Eggsy like a ridiculous fever dream. And yet here he is, approximately twenty minutes into his and David’s first proper debriefing session since they left for Rome, and he’s getting more heated by the second. 

He’s explaining that he fears that these mind-controlled freaks could potentially start doing so much more than just push climate activism. He’s saying he’s concerned about it, and the entire operation. He’s suggesting solutions. And, flipping fuckity fucking _hell_ , he’s having Hume _resist_ him when he says that everyone, Agents and staff alike, should be checked, to make sure they haven’t been bitten.

“I just don’t see in what way it would benefit us, Galahad. All Clansman Agents go through a thorough medical exam at least once a month, and the entire staff is required to take blood tests on a regular basis and report any kind of health issue immediately. We’re already on top of it. I’m not putting all my personnel through an invasive procedure.”

Hume sounds defensive, nervous, and irritable. All in all, _exactly_ how Eggsy feels, at the moment.

“I’m sorry, Hume, do you _hear_ yourself?” Eggsy asks, incredulous, raising his voice a tad. He’s still sitting at the table, and he feels David’s hand on his thigh, squeezing lightly. _Calm down_ , that hand says. Eggsy, it goes without saying, doesn’t listen to the hand. “ _An invasive procedure_? We’re literally just talking about lowering their blasted shirt collars and checking whether they show signs of having been bitten by, Christ, a fucking giant robotic bug designed for mind control purposes. I feel like baring a few napes is a ridiculously small price to pay to preserve the integrity and security of this oh-so-great organisation, don’t you?” he delivers, a tad spiteful. “And I’m sure Merlin would fully agree with me.”

“ _Merlin_ ,” Hume replies, officially poisonous now, “isn’t here. And he isn’t in charge of this operation—not even a little bit. Robert and I make the calls, here, Galahad. I thought that would have been clear enough, by now?”

“Fucking _hell_ , Hume,” Eggsy shouts, kicking the chair behind himself and getting to his feet. “Didn’t you hear a _word_ of what D— _Agent Wallace_ breathed? We were betrayed! The girl knew we were coming for the Duchess and her secrets, and I have an inkling she knew who we were, too. Getting that idiot Catesby to talk was sheer luck, really: one phone call, that’s what it would have taken. One phone call, and he’d have told me to fuck off as well, and we’d have come home empty-handed. Someone fuckin’ snitched on us, Hume. And no-one outside of Clansman knew we were there, or what we were there for.”

“Actually,” Hume replies, adjusting his spectacles on his nose. “ _Merlin_ knew you were there, and what you were there for.”

“Arthur, too,” David _very_ unhelpfully interjects. Eggsy looks down at him, half-hoping to burn him alive with his gaze. What in the ever living fuck is going on, right now?

“Are you all taking the _fucking_ piss, right now?” he bellows, to no-one in particular—certainly not directly at Robert, who’s observing the scene from the corner of the room, sitting in a big armchair like a sadistic schoolmaster, watching polished public schoolchildren have a go at each other. “Merlin and Arthur, snitching on us? Sure, mate. My mentor, and the quartermaster who saved my arse hundreds of times in the past six years. Makes so much sense, how didn’t I think of it meself? Oh, but of course—I’m not the brains of the operation, am I? I’m not _in charge_.” Eggsy’s out on a limb, here, and he knows that very well. _Whatever. What the fuck._

David clears his voice, clearly aware that the situation is getting more than thorny, and apparently thinks it appropriate to intervene. The self-proclaimed superhero metaphorically swoops in, then, in the form of a delicate hand touching Eggsy’s forearm, and a mellow, low tone that usually Eggsy would label as ‘attractive’, but that right now just sounds _condescending_. 

“Galahad, please calm d—”

“Oh, _fuck off_ , David!” Eggsy barks, pulling his arm away and taking a few steps backwards, to get away from the table. “I thought you were on my side, but I can see now that you’re as two-faced and shady as your _bosses_ , here.” He turns to the bespeckled quartermaster, seething. “And Hume: you know what? Fuck you, too. I leave London to help out, because you’re understaffed. I risk my arse for you knob’eads every day, for _months_. I bring home vitally important information, that gets you very close to cracking an apparently unworkable case. Then I suggest that, maybe, since all the evidence points to the fact that a _Clansman insider_ has sold me and David off, you should conduct a _fucking_ security sweep before anything like that happens again; all I get in return is a blanket ‘no’, and I should just shut me gob and take it, without asking questions? Sorry, no, you’ve got the wrong Kingsman for that. I’ll be sure to tell Merlin to send you someone more _proper_ , next time. Someone who respects inter-agency protocol above all, and maybe someone who works for the enemy, too, eh? Wouldn’t that be fun?”

 _Jesus. That was way too much_ , he thinks, as he listens to the hard, charged silence for ten-odd seconds. But he doesn’t regret a word he’s said.

The first to break the stillness and the uncomfortable quiet is David. He raises from his seat and tries another of his ‘soft approaches’. Eggsy gets a good look at his face, hair, and clothes for the first time today. He’s scrubbed up, well-coiffed and once again wearing Clansman-issue tweed. He looks like he hasn’t slept a wink, and he’s still the most gorgeous thing Eggsy’s ever laid eyes on. _Shame, really. Shame I can’t trust him, either._

“What do you mean, Eggsy?”

Eggsy scoffs. _Oh, dropping the code names, now, are we? Absolutely fuck you._

“It means, _David_ ,” he says, through gritted teeth. Air. He needs air. “That I’m done, here. Absolutely bloody done. Call me again when you’ve decided to stop being unreasonable twats. Good day, arseholes.”

Without further ado, Eggsy storms out. He walks fast and with purpose along the corridor and down the stairs to the shopfront, bids Bothwell goodbye, and gets out into the inexistent rush of Bath Street on a Sunday morning. He’s moderately aware of David running after him—a few instances of Eggsy’s name shouted out, Hume reprimanding him ( _code names only, Wallace, please_ ), and a series of thuds from hurried steps. 

Eggsy picks a direction, ignores everything and everyone around him, looks at his feet, and starts walking. He feels like he’s drowning. Like his first night at Kingsman trials: helpless, taken by surprise, and unsure of what to do. Except, this time, the tank seems to be full of wolves instead of water, and he can’t save his arse simply by punching his way through a double mirror. No, this is much, much worse. A situation like the one he oh so casually turned around, when he killed the first Arthur, way back in the day—except this time it’s not one man, but potentially a whole secret organisation gone rogue. 

_What the fuck. What. the. fuck._

He gets to a crossroads, and he raises his head momentarily; looks left and right for cars, makes sure no-one is coming, then crosses. When he gets to the other side, he resumes looking at his feet and deliberately ignoring David calling out for him a few yards away... and promptly walks into someone.

“Whoah, lad!” a man with a very familiar voice exclaims, startled. 

Eggsy looks up at him, and from heaving lightly with built-up anxiety and rage, he opts to stop breathing entirely. _Stewart._ The man’s a vision: walking properly now, no sign of the crutches he was using the last time Eggsy saw him, hair classily dishevelled, coffee in hand, wearing a light beige trench coat and a smart blue suit, and those eyes. Fuck. 

“Galahad, hey! Hadny realised it were you! How’re ye doin’?” Stewart pats him a couple of times on the shoulder. “Awrite?”

“Stewart, h-hi…” Eggsy says, aware of how small his voice is, and unable to do anything about it. 

“Did something happen, mate?” Stewart asks, visibly concerned. “Ye look like ye’ve seen a ghost!”

Right when he’s about to force out that no, everything is fine, he sees Stewart’s impossible blue eyes flicker past him, and the man's worried frown turn into a relieved smile. Then, Eggsy feels two big, strong hands cup each of his shoulders.

“Ah, if it isn’t ma’ favourite Bond wannabe,” Stewart muses, just as David—fucking _David_ —gets his hands off Eggsy and circles him, to stand between closer to Stewart. “How’s things, Wallace?” he asks, benevolent.

David is slightly panting from the jog he’s just obviously done to keep up with Eggsy’s decided pace. “All good, thanks, Stewart.”

“Aye?” Stewart asks, raising an eyebrow and smirking, unconvinced. “Hmm. Are you sure? Galahad here looks pale as a sheet, feck’s sake. Want tae go for a wee check-up, mate?” he asks Eggsy, gently reaching to touch his arm again. Eggsy shoots a half-tired, half-thankful look at him. “I was headed tae the shop, anyway. I can put ye into Hume’s capable hands…”

“He’s _fine_ , Stewart, really. We’re in a bit of a hurry, actually,” David delivers, sharply, side-eyeing Eggsy. 

Stewart goes from concerned to confused in the span of a second and a half. “Awrite, well. If ye’re sure. Have a good one, lads.”

“Really, mate, don’ worry. I’ll take care of it from here.” David tries to grab Eggsy’s forearm again, but Eggsy takes a step back, as if he’d been stung by a wasp.

“You,” Eggsy spats, “won’t _take care_ of anything, David. I thought I’d told you to leave me the fuck alone, but apparently I forgot to include it in my little speech, back there. Although ‘fuck off’ sounded pretty straightforward to me.” Eggsy turns to face Stewart, gives him a forced smile. “Always nice to see you, Stewart. Take care, bruv.”

Before either of them can reply, Eggsy changes direction and takes the road down to the river, walking fast again, hands in his pockets and head down. He only fleetingly takes in David calling after him once more, and Stewart’s firm voice telling him to let it go. He doesn’t turn around, for that. He keeps going, until he reaches the River Clyde and he feels the cold wind on his face, which makes him regret not having left the flat with a scarf around his neck. 

There, he sits on a bench and dials Kingsman HQ. He needs to escalate this to Merlin, pronto.

“Eggsy?” a voice replies, after barely two rings, and Eggsy’s breath is cut off again.

 _Fuck._ Wrong number. He just swiped for fast dial, and got it oh so dramatically wrong. Left is Merlin, right is—

“Harry,” he replies, trying to sound indifferent and casual, but really feeling more rage build up inside him. He’d almost forgotten about Harry’s last stunt. _Almost_.

“Everything alright, dear?” Harry has the nerve to reply, in his usual calm, smooth, _fond_ tone.

 _Enough of these bollocks, I reckon._ “Don’t you _dear_ me, you giant arse.” He’s resolute in his vehemence, and he’s not going to fall for it, this time. Nor any other time in the future. “No, everything is _not_ alright, as a matter of fact. I wasn’t planning on calling you about it, specifically—but now that I have you on the line, let me ask you something.”

“Anything, Eggsy,” Harry replies, suddenly much demurer.

“Do you still love me, Harry? Are you planning on…” _how do I put it without sounding like a desperate Brontë heroine_ , “... _taking me back_ , some day?”

Silence on the end of the line, for a couple of beats. Then, a deep breath. “What…”

“Do you think,” Eggsy cuts him off, impatiently. “That I’ll just be hanging out here, waiting for you, forever? Do you still think that I’m _yours_ , after all the bullshit you’ve put me through in the past few years?”

Harry clears his throat. Eggsy knows Harry’s got it, now. “The message I sent to Agent Wallace,” he says, in his signature glacial, professional tone. “I was simply making sure he’d take good care of you. See, I was forbidden to meddle, in any way. I wanted Kingsman technical staff on stakeouts around the hotel, in case the mission went south, but Merlin had strict instructions from Hume that no other Kingsman than you should be allowed on site. It was a Clansman-run operation—and because of that, it was completely out of my hands. And, well, I suppose I panicked a bit. I do care about you deeply, you know, Eggsy.”

_Hume… What? Shit. There really is something fishy going on, then._

“I’ll assume you’re telling me the truth, here.” _Purely because I’m flipping my shit, right now, and you’re only fuelling my paranoia. I really, really need to speak to Merlin, fucking hell._ “But I want to make one thing clear, once and for all: you and I are done, Harry. Let me remind you, this was _your_ decision to begin with. You don’t get to start cock fights and fend off potential, ugh, _suitors_ behind my fucking back.”

“Eggsy, please, I…”

“D—Agent Wallace is a decent bloke. There’s nothing going on between us,” he lies and it hurts so much he feels like he’s getting punched in the gut. “But even if there was, it’s really none of your business who I sleep with. Have I made myself clear, Harry?” 

Eggsy is being authoritarian, sharp, and firm-handed with Harry Hart for the first time in his life—and it feels intoxicatingly empowering. He can only hope that Harry won’t try turning the thing on its head, now, like he sometimes does. He really needs this small victory, today: catharsis, one giant ghost from the past finally gone. After all, he has enough crap to deal with on the daily without needing to also take care of possessive ex-boyfriends, thank you very much.

“Understood. I do apologise, Eggsy, I just thought…” A brief pause. Another sharp inhale. “I don’t even know anymore. You’re quite right, of course. None of my business who you do or don’t sleep with. I will back off.” He sounds defeated. Fitting, since Eggsy’s feeling triumphant. All-powerful.

“Thank you.”

“But please, I do want to know: what’s the matter now, Eggsy? What is, as you put it, _not alright_?” Harry sounds profoundly agitated. But Eggsy doesn’t want to talk to him about it. He doesn’t want to talk to Harry for a while, now, if at all possible.

“I really need to go, now. Good day to you, Harry.”

He closes the call, pockets his phone, and rests his face in both hands. He groans loudly, mostly in relief. _One less headache to deal with, I suppose. Now, onto the next one._

*

**_Kelvingrove Park, Glasgow. Twenty-five minutes later._ **

Eggsy has been walking more or less aimlessly for a good half-hour, while he’s been on the phone with Merlin, over-analysing Hume, Robert and David’s suspicious behaviour, the potential security breach that he’s spotted, and detailing everything else about the honeypot that Merlin might have missed out on. 

Unsurprisingly, given the latest developments, Merlin was in the dark about quite a bit of the new intel. “And ye’re saying that Hume has managed to trace the escaped lab technician?” he asks, likely in an attempt to drag Eggsy back to the ‘real issues’, as he himself put it. _Fuck, why won’t he believe me, either? Has everyone lost their marbles—or am I the problem, here?_

“Yeah, he says he has a few leads. I told you, I put a tap on that idiot Catesby’s phone, and he's getting regular updates, so Hume's on top of it. And he’s sending me and David all round the country again. We’re supposed to leave tonight. But Merlin, I _really_ think there’s something funny going on at Clansman.” _Please, Merlin. Please, trust me on this._

Merlin sighs. “Eggsy. Had you talked to Agent Wallace about this? In private? Before bringing it up in front of Hume and the Chief?”

“I hadn’t, no. I just thought… C’mon, it’s not _that_ far-fetched a request, a minor sweep for bite marks, with this level of a threat around!” he exclaims, frustrated. A woman, passing by with her dog, looks like she’s just had the scare of her life. He hadn’t realised he was shouting again. _Shit, I really need to chill the fuck out._ “I didn’t think I had to check on anything with David.”

“I thought you two…”

“Yes, yes, Merlin,” Eggsy interrupts, once again more aggressive than he would like to be. “I _thought_ too. But apparently, I thought wrong.” Right then, he thinks back to last night, and that weird thing that happened, the one that effectively broke the spell. “Fuck, Merlin. Speaking of David. Something bloody weird happened, last night.”

“Do tell, Eggsy.”

“We were…” _making out against a wall in Rome_ , “...at dinner, and at some point his… shit, I swear I ‘aven’t dreamt it, Merlin—but I realise how fucking bonkers it’ll sound: his fingertips started buzzing? And one lit up, like there was a tracker inside? And like that, he took a call from Hume?”

Merlin is silent for a bit, during which Eggsy holds his breath, impatiently waiting for an answer. Finally, Merlin speaks. “Right. That definitely doesn’t sound like anything Hume has ever shared with me, Re: Clansman tech capabilities. Did Agent Wallace clarify how their com system _actually_ works, after that?”—

“That’s the thing. All he said was that I ‘shouldn’t have seen that’. Why is everyone keeping secrets? Do you really trust these people? Does Harry?”

“I know Harry doesn’t trust Robert—some kind of squabble between them in the early days, on a classified mission that I do not have the details to, would you believe—but I do trust Hume. That being said, I’ll definitely be looking further into this. Thanks, Eggsy. Be safe, eh?”

Eggsy swallows. His head hurts. “Yeah. Alright, fine. Thanks, please keep me—”

“Eggsy!” a familiar voice calls, from a short distance.

_Ah, Jesus fuck. Speak of the devil._

“Gotta go, Merlin. Please let me know if you find anything, eh?” he whispers hurriedly, not turning to face the source of the voice quite yet.

“Aye, I will. Speak soon, Eggsy.”

The call disconnects, and Eggsy feels that unmistakeable sense of dread dawn on him once again. It was comforting to have Merlin on the phone. Eggsy knows Merlin always has his best interest at heart; and also, despite this sometimes implying breach of protocol, Merlin usually prioritises Eggsy’s safety over everything else. Now, Merlin isn’t talking to him anymore, and he’s thousands of miles away in London, and he just feels abandoned.

Even David—gorgeous, distraught-looking David Budd, his partner, the one who took so long to get to know, the one he thought could fill the void that Harry left inside him and finally, _finally_ make him happy—doesn’t feel that dependable, anymore. 

Eggsy looks at him, then: David’s hair is wind-swept, and he’s panting slightly. He’s obviously been running, or walking fast, at least, to keep up with him. Not that Eggsy’s felt like anyone was tailing him, or anything—but then again, David is apparently just that good a spy.

“What is it, then, David? Here to _calm me down_ , are you?” Eggsy says, aggressively, carelessly raising his voice again and startling a few pigeons in the process. 

David does that infuriating thing with his eyebrows that makes him look like a lost puppy begging for shelter. He takes a step closer. Quite obviously bites the inside of his lip. Then, finally, he speaks. 

“Eggsy, please. I just want to explain.” He tries reaching a hand in front of him to touch Eggsy’s arm, but Eggsy steps back, just enough to be out of his reach. It’s funny, if he thinks about it: being touched by David was all he wanted last night—all day, every day, for months on end, really. And now, look at him.

“Explain, then,” he replies, firm. It’s the same tone he used with Harry, less than an hour ago, but his resolution isn’t remotely as strong, now, and he has an inkling that David knows it, too. David just has this power over him—and he’s scared shitless of it.

“There’s a very good and extremely classified reason why Hume doesn’t want us at Clansman to get checked. And it has nothing to do with us ‘working for the enemy’, by the way.” 

David’s just done air quotes. _Seriously._ He falls silent for a while, big blue eyes searching for understanding in Eggsy’s own. _Going to have to do a bit better than this, mate._

Eggsy inhales deeply to try and keep his calm and not to sound too impatient, or start on the expletives again. “Yes, sure. Do go on?”

“No, that’s… That’s it, actually. That’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid,” he says, looking even more crestfallen now.

“Are you taking the piss, David?” Eggsy asks, absolutely flabbergasted. “Am I supposed to just take your word for it, then? ‘We’re not working for the enemy, pinky promise’?” _Isn’t that exactly what you would say if you_ were _working for the enemy?_ But he doesn’t say this out loud. David obviously already thinks he’s paranoid enough. Eggsy doesn’t think he can stand getting patronised any more than this.

“Well. Yeah? That’s kind of what I was hoping for. Do I not deserve your trust, Eggsy?” he asks, serious. 

_Yes, I really thought you did._ “What do you mean, exactly?” he replies, instead, hard-headed and immovable, immediately kicking himself for it. _Prick. Paranoid prick._

David scoffs, rolls his eyes, then gives him an ironic half-smile. “Seriously? Fucking hell, Eggsy. I’ve told you things no-one else knows.”

 _And yet, I keep finding out that there are more and more hidden layers. I don’t know you that well, do I?_ “Why? Why did you tell me those things?”

“Because I trust _you_ , Eggsy. And I like you. Didn’t you listen to me, yesterday? Did all _that_ mean absolutely nothing to you?” David steps closer again, and this time Eggsy doesn’t move away. He’s hyperaware of David’s voice actually breaking, just the slightest bit. _Fuck._

“Of course it meant something!” he protests, feeling his physical defenses crumble completely, despite the very much still present anxiety, which is currently eating away at his insides.

“Then why can’t you just take my word for it, on this?”

“Because, fuck, David: this is bigger than just me and you, isn’t it?”

Eggsy steps even closer to him, now, and rests both hands on the side of his chest. He sees a flicker of something dark in his eyes that kind of looks like pain.

“ _Just_ you and me?” he repeats, visibly hurt.

Eggsy groans internally. _This is going so fucking well._ He closes his fist over David’s coat and punches his chest extremely lightly, to express his exasperation.

“Oh come on, you know what I mean! This is our job. The _mission_ we were assigned! People dying, disappearing, plans for world domination! There can’t be asymmetric information between us. Surely you understand that? I can’t have to be looking over my shoulder every five seconds, for fuck’s sake!”

“But you don’t _have_ to look over your shoulder every five seconds. You’re safe here. With us, with _me_.” For the briefest second, David looks like he’s about to kiss him. Instead, he keeps talking. “Eggsy, please. Why won’t you believe me?” 

“Because, David, there’s too many secrets around, still. And that, in my experience, usually means something. Every time someone didn’t trust me enough to actually tell me things, it always ended up in a disaster.” He pauses, considering what he’s just said. Considering stepping away from David. Considering what the frantic beat of David’s heart currently means. And that’s when he knows what he has to say next. “Actually, you know what I’m talking about. You’ve been through it yourself.”

David’s expression darkens completely, now. There it is, Eggsy’s done it. _I’m sorry, David. I didn’t want to bring up that horrible thing that happened to you. I never want to see you like this. But there was no other way._

He looks extremely hurt, angry, and confused. His eyes fill with tears, and Eggsy’s heart breaks into a million pieces. “Why, Eggsy? Wh—ah, _fuck_ , fuck!” David abruptly exclaims, his wet whisper of a voice turning into a loud shout, and one of his hands reaching behind himself, to touch his nape. “Oh, ye scunner, that hurt!”

_Oh, God, he’s been shot. A dart, or something. Fuck._

Eggsy’s first instinct is to put himself in fight or flight mode. _What the hell was that? A bullet? But where would a sniper even hide, around here? On a blasted tree? On top of the hill?_ No matter. He reaches inside his coat and past his suit jacket for his gun, that he still wears on that discreet harness holster that Harry bought him to celebrate his third year as a Kingsman. 

It all happens in a second: gun is out, gun is charged, David’s back is covered. Outstretched arms and vigil eyes, 180° scan of the perimeter, with his back firmly against David’s. But he can’t see anything in the near distance: not a sniper, not any other kind of suspicious person. Even families and joggers seem to have disappeared. _What?_

He spins round, and David does the same, so they’ve effectively swapped places and they’re facing each other again. Tears are falling down David’s face—probably pain, physical or mental, Eggsy can’t be sure—but he looks otherwise responsive. Certainly not like a man who’s been administered a powerful narcotic via some kind of invisible dart, shot from an invisible gun, by an invisible gunman.

“Are you alright?” Eggsy asks, briefly looking down at David’s hands, closed around his own gun.

“Aye, I think? I just…” he touches his nape again, rubs it for a few seconds. “I definitely _felt_ something, I swear! Hurt like a bitch. But look,” he shows Eggsy the palm of his hand, which looks clean. “No’ even a drop of blood.”

Eggsy feels his eyes widen in mild shock and, for the first time today, he also surprisingly feels like making light of the situation. That therapist they went to that one time would probably call it a ‘coping mechanism’. 

“You’re starting to sound like you’ve finally lost it, Budd,” he says, with a small smile, that David doesn’t reciprocate. _Fine, okay. I deserve it._ “Oh alright, then,” he says, impatiently. “Turn around, let’s ‘ave a look at it.”

David obliges, also making sure of bending his knees a bit to make up for their height difference. Eggsy pulls his coat, jacket and shirt collars away all together with a hooked finger, and proceeds to notice that David’s nape looks completely and utterly unharmed.

“Right, then, old boy,” he says, patting David on the back to signal that he can turn back around. When they’re facing each other again, Eggsy smiles weakly. Taking another jab at defusing the tension. (It doesn’t look like it’s working at all, but he’s in too deep now.) “Diagnosis is you’re absolutely barmy, mate. Completely—what, David? What is it?” he interrupts himself, registering a look of sheer horror on David’s face.

“Fuck, Eggsy, behind you!” he cries, trying to push Eggsy to one side. “The fecking bug!”

That’s when Eggsy feels it: a terrible stinging sensation at the base of his skull, that makes his brain feel like it’s on fire. 

It only lasts a couple of seconds. After that, he feels cold. His blood like liquid nitrogen, his heart beating faster and faster. 

He shivers for a few seconds more, and then his entire body seems to be completely shutting down. 

The last thing he can clearly make out before he starts falling backwards are David’s eyes, alight with panic.

“Eggsy!” he hears David call. His voice sounds like it’s coming through several layers of cotton.

“D-David,” he breathes out, just as his eyes close completely and strong arms envelop him before gravity gets the better of him. 

And after that, absolutely nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh. D R A M A, eh?
> 
> Don' worry, though: it will all come together next time round. I promise. It'll be a crazy, nae, absolutely _insane_ action chapter, that I'm absolutely over the moon with and that I hope will help tie some loose ends and bring you a few more shreds of resolution. Also, maybe, just maybe, we might be closer to this slow burning fire of a blossoming relationship between our favourite idiot boys becoming something more...  
> Maybe. You'll have to come back here in two weeks to know what happens ;)
> 
> Have a great day, week, fortnight, and see you soon.
> 
> Love,
> 
> C xx


	17. XIV. Antidotum - I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Please.”
> 
> “What d’you want me to say, David?” Eggsy finally replies, irritably.
> 
> “Just want tae know how ye’re feeling.”
> 
> “I’m fine.”
> 
> “Well, ye don’ look it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hello everyone! Long time no see!
> 
> A bit of background on this one: it took _everything_ out of me. Like, seriously. I got to this point, saw the mountain of work I'd have to do to get it right, and I almost gave up. And, well, I'm so glad I didn't. But I absolutely could not have done it without M, who dragged me out of many many plot holes I had dug for myself in the process, and [soft_science](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_science), who cheered me on as usual. So, my heart goes out to them, and their insane patience with me while I navigated this whole thing. <3
> 
> This was supposed to be one chapter, but by the end I checked the word count and I realised that it was of almost 20k, so I decided to split it in two parts, to make it easier on both you lovely readers and myself (it leaves me more time to finish this thing off—I know you'll understand). 
> 
> You will find the usual suspects, in this chapters, and a wee name-drop for a Clansman character we haven't encountered yet, **Agent Soules** , who is played by Ewan McGregor. Don't worry, you'll meet him one day, and he'll tell you to, ahem, _choose life_.
> 
> Here is our usual **[playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6TJ6YCXdm5Mi4LUvmD8Mhb?si=qsJ0NK0MTlqCeqsKbc3sYg)** , which has helped me a whoooole lot, this time round. I seriously imagine most of these songs as soundtracks for the scenes you're about to read. Especially the last few, because... Oh, no, s p o i l e r s. You'll see. ;)
> 
> Let's get started, then. Let's live through a frantic week with the boys, battling symptoms and looking for a cure for this damned bite. 
> 
> Let's save Eggsy together.

_**XIV. Antidotum - I** _

**Day 1 after the bite**

**_Clansman private jet. The following day. 8:32 AM_ **

“Please, Eggsy. Say something.”

Eggsy’s been more or less dead silent since they got out of the medical ward, yesterday, in the late afternoon. They didn’t speak during the bullet train back to Glasgow, on the cab ride back home, or in the lift up to their attic apartment. Even when they got inside, despite David’s desperate attempts to communicate via tormented, longing looks, Eggsy didn’t break. After a hurried ‘good night’, he went to sleep right away, leaving David alone to eat a lazy dinner of baked beans on toast—chased with one, nae, three drams of strong whisky.

And now, twenty minutes into their short flight to Inverness, Eggsy still won’t talk to him. So, David looks intensely in his direction, taking in his strong profile and clenched jaw—and the unfamiliar branches of the bite mark peeking out of his shirt collar, shocking red and scary—and probes him again.

“Please.”

“What d’you want me to _say_ , David?” Eggsy finally replies, irritably.

“Just want tae know how ye’re feeling.”

“I’m _fine_.”

“Well, ye don’ look it. Hume said—”

“Oh, fucking hell,” Eggsy interrupts, head finally flicking to his left to face David. Fire in his eyes. “I _know_ what Hume said. Fact is, and he said this too, by the way, I’m responding to it more slowly than other subjects. You heard him.”

“But—” _you’re still responding_ , is what David wants to say, but doesn’t get to.

“ _But_ the fact is I’m still fine,” Eggsy cuts him off again. “Bit dizzy, but fine. Just wish you’d leave me alone, really.”

David feels the weight of anxiety on his chest, even heavier than it was before Eggsy started talking to him. He’s completely closed off and sealed the shell around him. _Need to do something. Now._

“Can’t, sorry,” he says, completely unapologetic. _I’m just so bloody worried. People have died from this. Jesus fuck._ He daren’t touch Eggsy—take his hand, caress his cheek, hug him—but it’s really all he wants to do. “Hume said to expect a crippling migraine any minute. Are you...”

“I said I’m _fine_ , David! How come you’re not worrying about yourself, for a change? Stop playing Florence bloody Nightingale and think about your own upcoming migraine and leave me the _fuck_ alone, eh?” Eggsy blurts, looking as crushed as David feels.

_Shit._

“Nothing’s going tae happen tae me. I…” David says, without thinking, then cuts himself short immediately. “No, sorry, I can’t say.” _Fuck. Fuck Clansman, fuck Hume, and fuck me, too. Duty-bound isn’t a fun state of mind, lately._

“Oh my _fucking_ God, David!” Eggsy exclaims, every last shred of patience visibly lost and looking like he’d jump out of his seat if he wasn’t strapped in. “Why are you being like this? You're acting like it's bigger than us, and yet you're not telling me what the hell is going on! How am I supposed to work like this?” He pauses, catches his breath. He is positively on fire. “You really want me to trust you? Then fucking trust _me_ , and tell me what's so classified! Stop expecting me to work in the bloody dark!”

David is burned by the speech, but it’s honestly Eggsy’s eyes that are doing it for him. They spell it out oh so clearly—much clearer than what any words, soft or aggressive, could ever do: David’s going to lose him, if he doesn’t speak out and straightens things immediately. 

_Oh, whatever, fuck it. C’mon, David: deep breaths, and out with it._ This really is bigger than them, but he also can’t afford to lose Eggsy. For anything.

“Right, here goes. The thing Hume didn’t want you—” _well, Kingsman, really,_ “—tae know is that we have proprietary neural technology. The Clansman Network. All of us are on it: the Chief, the Agents, the Staff. It’s Hume’s thing, he created it. It’s a wee implant in a very specific part of our brains. That’s how we communicate, and that’s how we protect ourselves. It saves my arse on the daily, and this is no exception.”

Eggsy is obviously dumbfounded. Mouth hanging half-open, eyes wide. “You…”

“Aye,” David replies. He doesn’t need to hear any more. He reaches out a hand and grabs one of Eggsy’s, entwining their fingers on their shared armrest. “It’s our best kept secret. I was itching to tell you for months, really. But obviously I couldn’t.”

Eggsy’s expression softens a bit, but he still doesn’t squeeze David’s hand back. “Is that how you and Julia… that night, at the pub? You started laughing together, but you weren’t talking out loud.”

 _Oh, God._ “Aye.”

Eggsy raises an eyebrow and readjusts a bit in his seat. “Were you talking about me?”

“Aye, we were. She was, um. ‘Being appreciative’ of ye, I guess one could call it.” He pauses, smiles weakly. “She said you were really hot—and I agreed. Had to.”

“Such a charmer, since the very beginning, weren’t you?” Eggsy says, finally squeezing David’s hand but sounding very sarcastic at the same time. “Shame it took you so long to actually say it.”

David covers their entwined hands with his free one, looks him deep in the eyes. _Can’t afford to lose you, not now, not ever._ “I’m so sorry, Eggsy, I truly am. I wish I could’ve told you before. Yesterday, the day before. The day we met. It would have made things so much easier.”

Involuntarily, instinctively, he moves a leg a bit to his right. Before he realises what’s going on, he feels Eggsy’s knee gently bump into his. _Oh._

“Yeah, you’re certainly right about _that_ ,” Eggsy says, frustrated. 

“I’m sorry. So sorry. I am. Please believe me.”

“I do. I do believe you. It’s just…” he retracts his hand now, rubs both palms on his face, groaning. “I can’t help but think that you’ve been effectively hiding things from me since day one. I finally thought I knew everything there is to know about you, and then—” he trails off resting his head against the seat and closing his eyes. “Fuck me, David.”

“I _tried_ , Eggsy. Please, believe me: not a day went by when I didn’t mention that to Hume. I really tried my feckin’ best.” _And I really wish you’d cut me some slack, here, honestly. I’ve done all I could do._ “And now you know, don’t you?” _Isn’t that the most important thing?_

“Yeah, I s’pose. Now I know,” Eggsy says, resignedly. “Doesn’t mean I don’t have another million and a half questions about this entire thing, though. Or that I’m not still a bit mad at you.”

David smiles, relieved, just a tad of residual anxiety weighing on his chest. On a whim, he raises a hand to touch Eggsy’s face, caresses a sharp cheekbone with his thumb. Eggsy leans into his touch and looks at him intensely: he seems fond as ever, thank fuck—if only a tad irritated still.

“That’s absolutely fair,” David concedes. “I’d be mad too. But I promise: no more secrets, from now on.”

Eggsy turns his head a bit, guiding the palm of David’s hand towards his lips, then plants a delicate kiss on it. And it’s like he’s just flicked a switch, really: relief turns into blissful yearning, and affection into lustful desperation. _God, what would I give to be able to have you right here, right now._ “Yeah,” Eggsy murmurs softly, warm breath still grazing David’s palm. “No more secrets.”

“And, well, we still have a bit of time here, I think. For, you know, that million and a half questions. I can tell you whatever you want to know,” David offers, sweetly.

Eggsy smiles and leans in a bit closer. “Maybe later,” he whispers, in a low, husky tone that sends shivers down David’s spine.

He decides, then, that he’s going to do it. He’s going in for an actual kiss. Appropriate workplace behaviour can hang: he’s doing it. He’s got another hand on Eggsy’s face, strong jawline flexing underneath his fingers, and Eggsy looks like he wants this too, so bad, David can read it on his face, and he’s just—

“Gentlemen, please be aware that we will be landing in the next five minutes,” the pilot’s voice says, before David can move another muscle. It’s Randy again, today. They always seem to be getting him, lately. Getting in the way of any more or less shameless attempt at PDA during their commutes. Ugh. And he’s _so chatty_ , too. Asking questions, constantly. David’s had enough of him.

Visibly startled, Eggsy backs away a bit, head rested back against his seat and a look of regret on his face. He briefly turns to glance at the approaching ground outside his window, then back to David again.

“Oh, well. I s’pose then you might as well start telling me all about your enhancements, then, you smug arse,” Eggsy states, matter of factly. “I know you’re _dying_ to.”

David rolls his eyes, but takes in the friendly tone and the way Eggsy is trying to turn his slight residual annoyance into light humour, as per usual. _Are we going to be okay, then?_

“Alright,” David replies, dramatically rolling his eyes. “What d’ye wanna know?”

*

**_Inverness harbour. 10:55 AM_ **

“Well, then. Looks like it’s not this one, either,” Eggsy says, tiredly, lowering his gun and huffing loudly. 

They’ve been scouting giant shipping containers for the past couple of hours, no specific leads to follow other than a message on John Catesby’s tapped phone, informing him that the lab technician everyone’s looking for had been seen boarding a container ship on Mainland, in the Shetlands. Unlucky for her, and very lucky for Clansman, the ship’s captain turned out to be very sensitive to bribes, and he blabbed to Hume’s contact about some woman being on board, specifically inside one of the blue containers. Hence, here they are, checking each and every one of those that have arrived on said ship and are momentarily parked into Inverness Harbour—hoping to God she hasn’t had the time to organise transport and that therefore is still stalling and waiting inside one of them. And, of course, hoping that Catesby’s men really believed the bollocks they had the ship captain feed them, sending them all the way to Aberdeen Harbour instead of Inverness.

During this wild goose chase—there really is no other word for it, unfortunately—Eggsy has been uncharacteristically on edge. When they went on recons before, he’s always been calm, present, vigilant. Always a tad infuriating, sure, but never this nervous. Never this jumpy. Now, he just looks agitated. Uneasy. And David knows it’s most likely because of the bite, which is most likely affecting him neurologically already, and this is most likely going to mean David will be digging himself into an anxiety hole for the foreseeable future. 

Great. Just _great_.

“Jus’ need tae keep looking for a wee bit longer, I s’pose,” he says, resignedly, to Eggsy’s turned back. David’s standing behind him, covering him in case anyone would enter the container behind them.

“What is this, David?” Eggsy asks, gesturing around himself theatrically. “What are we doin’ here? C’mon, you don’t really expect me to believe Hume and his fuckin’ sci-fi accurate instruments and tech have _no idea_ how to check these fuckin’ things for human presence and send us the right way!” 

_Yeah. Jumpy and aggressive. Yikes. But he’s right._

Just as he’s done shouting, David hears a noise outside the container and shoots an alarmed glance at Eggsy: he looks to be starting on another monologue, so David closes the distance between them in two quick and efficient strides, pins him to the closest container wall, and puts a hand over his mouth.

“Shh,” he whispers, desperately trying to ignore the voice in his head that tells him that this is possibly the closest they’ve been in days, and that the last time they were _this_ close they were also about to put an end to the unbearable sexual tension that’s been wrecking them both for months, and that none of what has happened since is even remotely fair to either of them.

Eggsy’s eyes are wide and panicky, so David gestures with his head in the direction of the container doors. “There’s someone outside,” he explains, briefly. He should be releasing Eggsy, now, but he doesn’t quite want to. Not quite sure whether it’s just because he feels Eggsy weirdly relaxing underneath his touch, some of that pent up aggressiveness somehow melting away, or because (quite selfishly, he must admit) he’s been hoping to get Eggsy like this for a wee while—and, unfortunately for him, his body betrays him, sometimes; he can’t help himself, he needs to enjoy this for a few seconds more.

Almost as if he was reading his mind, Eggsy writhes a bit under his touch and mumbles something against the palm of his hand.

He releases Eggsy immediately, then, and gets a well-deserved glare for his troubles… which suddenly is revealed to be ironic, as Eggsy raises an eyebrow and smirks at him. “Hey, you smooth geezer. Keep your hands to yourself, eh?” he offers, cheekily winking as he straightens his suit sleeves. _You don’t really mean that_ , David wants to say, but Eggsy continues, “could’ve just told me to shut up.”

“Ye wouldn’t’ve,” David replies, as matter-of-factly as he can muster, trying not to fall victim to Eggsy's charm while something potentially very dangerous is afoot. _Damn._ “C’mon, let’s go now.” _As much as I’d like to make an honest man out of you against all of these walls, it’s really not the time._

Eggsy nods in understanding and checks the chamber of his gun to make sure it’s charged. “After you, Budd.”

A first glance outside the container lets David know that there indeed seem to be one person outside, walking in the narrow space between the giant blocks of red and green and blue, and that they—small frame, long raven-black hair, black leather jacket—might definitely be the woman they’ve been looking for. 

He gestures towards Eggsy to let him know it’s safe, and to encourage him to follow. They move slowly at first, grazing the container walls in the narrow alley they’re walking in, but they quickly have to pick up their pace, since the woman in front of them seems to be doing the same.

It’s a game of cat and mouse for a wee _interminable_ while, but then, finally, David can see the exit of the harbour in the distance, just at the end of the latest alley of containers they’ve just engaged in. There, he can spot a motorcycle and a rider wearing all black and a full helmet.

“Fuck,” he whispers to Eggsy from their hiding place. Eggsy has just dragged him away from the main alley around a corner, his reflexes thankfully still well in place. 

“Did that biker see us?” Eggsy asks, panting slightly. “He was turned in our direction.”

“Let me check,” David replies, tapping his temple and activating his enhanced vision. Like that, he can see through the container wall: the biker looks unphased. He doesn’t seem to have registered them tailing the woman. “No, don’ think so.”

“Okay, so let’s— _oh, fuck, fuck, oh God_!” Eggsy exclaims, way too loud for the current sneaking-around situation they’re in. He drops his gun, which miraculously doesn’t fire on impact, and clutches his head in both hands, groaning loudly in pain.

 _Fuck._ _Something’s very wrong._

Normally, seeing someone he cares about go through any kind of painful experience, David would go on autopilot: he wouldn’t think, he’d just assist them immediately. 

Now, however, as he’s seeing Eggsy crying out in pain he’s also hearing a man’s voice cry out, “Fuck! Hurry, they found us! Come on!” and he has to act quickly.

He forgets himself: he doesn’t take the one second that he usually does take to look through the wall using his X-ray vision, to check if the biker might be armed. And for his trouble, just as he steps outside of his cover, he feels a bullet narrowly miss him.

_So fucking close, Jesus. Bloody focus, David, c’mon._

He crouches down to minimise the target area for the gunman, then shoots three shells of his own. It’s too far, and he misses completely. 

Meanwhile, he hears the sound of the motorcycle engine revving up, and the excruciating noises Eggsy is still making, crumpled on the ground with his head still in his hands. Another bullet flies past David, left side of his head this time, even closer than the first one.

He notices in horror that the bike is now moving, and that’s when he knows it’s over. He does, however, zoom in close enough to make out the license plate on it—hopefully Hume will be able to make something of it. _Maybe not a complete cock-up after all._

“Urghhhhh!” Eggsy’s groan snaps David completely out of his potentially-botched-job-focused musings. He turns towards him and sees him, his face stained with tears and now almost clawing at his scalp. He hurries towards him, crouching down next to him, trying to delicately turn his face so that Eggsy will look him in the eye.

“What is it, love? What’s going on?”

“It’s me ‘ead, it’s… _fuuuuuck_!” Eggsy exclaims again, closed fist tapping against his temple, hard. “It’s like it’s about to explode! Make it stop, fuck, please, David, make it stop!” he cries out, urgently, deliberately continuing to punch his own skull.

If this were anybody else, David would keep his cool and follow mission protocol: administer a sedative, ask for backup, see them both transported safely back to HQ.

Because this isn’t just _anyone_ , though, David’s frozen in panic and shock, and all he can think of doing is blocking Eggsy’s wrists to stop him from hitting himself, while murmuring quietly, _shh, shh, please, stop_.

“Wallace,” the handler’s helpful intervention mercifully comes into David’s ear. “Left pocket. Sedative. Inject Galahad with it—sending a car to get you out of there.”

 _Thank fuck for the babysitters_ , David thinks, as he does as he’s told. He fishes into his left breast pocket, gets a syringe out, and plants it unceremoniously into Eggsy’s thigh. 

Eggsy falls limply into his arms in a matter of seconds. David dries the leftover tears off his face and kisses his forehead as he adjusts himself to keep them both seated upright.

_Jesus fuck. This is just going to get worse, isn’t it?_

*******

**Day 2 after the bite**

**_Clansman medical ward. The following day. 6:04 AM_ **

When Eggsy wakes up, it’s all a blur. He knows he’s awake, but he can’t bring himself to open his eyes. The mattress underneath him is soft, and the air smells clean and sterile. He can hear a faint beep from somewhere on his left.

Then, he remembers. Gunshots, a motorbike. Searing pain crushing his skull. David. More pain. His own wails, helpless. The sudden realisation that he had to make the burning migraine stop, some way, somehow. The resolution that the only way he could reasonably do that was to hit himself repeatedly in the head— _make it stop, make it stop, make it stop_. That last bit felt especially peculiar. Foreign. Like he wasn’t in control anymore. Like someone else was making the decisions for him.

He opens his eyes. He doesn’t have to scout around for David, because David is barely three feet from him—sitting on an uncomfortable-looking chair next to the bed, head resting on the mattress, having momentarily dozed off. His left hand is close to Eggsy’s right, as if David had wanted to hold it, but hadn’t quite found it in him to actually touch Eggsy.

Eggsy smiles weakly, feeling a rush of fondness for David, expecting the soothing, comfortable sensation of being near the man he loves, no matter how dire the circumstances may be—but, instead, he feels nothing. He just feels numb. _Must be the bloody meds._ Painkillers (or maybe something stronger?) and whatever other drug he’s one hundred percent positive the Clansman doctors might be trying on him to slow down the effects of the venom. Drugs. They definitely never were Eggsy’s thing.

Trying to ignore his confused mind, he lifts his left hand and inspects both the IV stuck onto it and his bruised knuckles from trying to knock himself unconscious, red raw and a bit bloodied still, then covers David’s hand with his.

David immediately stirs. He shakes his head a couple of times, then gets to his feet and—there it is, that _worried_ look on his face is back.

“Hey,” David says, smiling weakly.

“Hey yourself.”

“How’re ye feeling?” David asks, slightly bending over the bed and gently raising Eggsy’s hand to press a delicate kiss on his spent knuckles. 

“Like I’ve been asleep for a hundred years,” Eggsy replies, surprisingly finding he fully means it. 

David chuckles, shakes his head, then seems to have an idea. He raises a questioning eyebrow, then delivers yet another piece of his usual smooth act.

“I believe that ye might be deserving of another kind of kiss, then.”

Eggsy blinks once, then widens his eyes and lets his mouth fall open, unconsciously, in anticipation. He nods. He thinks he does, at least. He feels like his head’s moving, but maybe everything’s still spinning from the aftermath of the migraine? He can’t be sure.

“If ye’ll have me?” David eggs him on, somehow still looking for consent and asking if it’s okay, bless him, as if Eggsy hadn’t already given him his heart and soul on a silver platter.

“C’mere you giant idiot, I’ve been waiting a thousand years for this,” Eggsy utters impatiently, raising his right hand to beckon David closer and feeling himself smile, happiness and love fighting against the sheer numbness from the drugs.

David inches closer, but stops a few breaths shy of Eggsy’s mouth. “Thought ye said a hundr—”

“Seriously, shut up,” Eggsy interrupts him, pulling him in and finally, finally getting what he’s been craving for days. David’s lips on his. The clean scent of his skin. The feel of his stubble under sensitive fingertips. Everything back on track. Peace of mind.

(Well, more or less.)

He could make out with David like this for another proverbial hundred-to-a-thousand years—David sitting down on the bed, cupping Eggsy’s face with both hands and deepening the kiss until Eggsy’s out of breath and the monitor is beeping more frantically, both lost in the feeling of being close again, finally allowed to resume where they’d left off, finally—

“Ah, Galahad,” a familiar voice booms from the far corner of the room, startling them. Eggsy groans softly as David retracts from him as if he’d been stung. _How rude_ , he can’t help but think. “Glad you’re with us once more,” Hume continues as he paces further into the room and is finally lit properly, so Eggsy can see him. The expression on his face doesn’t betray any kind of shock or outrage at catching two of his agents passionately snogging. _Au contraire_ , he looks like someone’s who’s just been told he was right all along.

_Shit, were we always this obvious, then? Wonder if they had bets going on._

“I’m fine, Hume,” Eggsy replies, dismissively. “Really no need for all this gear you’ve strapped on me.”

“Thought you might enjoy the morphine, at least,” Hume says, with a sly smirk. “Everyone usually does.” _Is he really not going to make one single comment on David—?_

“Yeah, well. Never been one for drugs, ‘ave I?” he replies, feeling fierce all of a sudden. 

Hume doesn’t say it, but Eggsy can read it in his eyes, that veiled judgment that someone who has read his personal file might have—that _I find that really hard to believe_ kind of look.

David, apparently, catches it too. “Are you here for something, Andrew, or are ye just on a mission to taunt poor Eggsy here?” he asks, firm and sharp.

“Alright, Wallace—pipe down, will you?” Hume replies, now matching David’s tone, his own facial features hardening in turn. “Yes, I’m here for _something_. I wanted to inquire on Galahad’s health, and see if you were both fit to leave for Edinburgh, in three hours’ time.”

“As I said, Hume, I’m alright. Yes, I can be out of here in three hours. No problem.”

“Eggsy, I don’ think—” David tries to interject, but Hume cuts him off.

“Agent Soules is finally being cleared from medical today. He’s in top form. I could send him in with you, David. Edinburgh’s his town, he’ll be useful on the ground,” he delivers, in his usual flat, professional tone.

“With all due respect to this, I’m sure, _invaluable_ member of your respectable organisation, Hume—he might know the city like the back of his hand, but he knows approximately fuck all about the mission. I said I’m fine. Get me out of this bed and into some clothes, c’mon, let’s roll,” Eggsy says, resolutely. Then, he glances at David and his concerned puppy eyes again. “I promise, I’m alright, David. I want to do this.”

David is quiet for a couple of beats, then reaches to grab his hand and squeeze it gently once again. “Okay. Let’s do this, then.”

*

**_Capital Business Centre, Haymarket, Edinburgh. Six hours later._ **

They’re getting shot at.

They’re actually getting shot at.

It was a fucking trap.

And the worst of it is, Eggsy had almost no doubt this was going to happen. After all, it was one red flag after the other. 

They stood waiting outside the tall office building where the rendezvous with Hume’s contact was supposed to take place for more than twenty minutes past the agreed upon time. Then, when the man (one Michael Bainbridge, grade A weirdo, head of an underground eugenics research lab that Eggsy wants to bet will be David’s next mission to dismantle, _fucking hell, Hume and his dodgy connections_ ) finally arrived, he wasn’t alone as he should have been. He was escorted by two giant bodyguards dressed all in black—whom, if Eggsy hadn’t known how impossible that is, he would have sworn looked surprisingly like those male nurses he and David escaped from in Wick, Bumfuckshire, scaring them off with ‘too much gay’.

(That must have thrown off the lab technician, somehow, because she never actually bloody showed for the meet. Apparently she, unlike Eggsy and David, has people looking out for her.)

Eggsy scoffs as he dodges a bullet and takes cover behind a wall, throwing a side glance at David to check whether he’s alright. He seems to be. 

_Fuck, I hate gunfights in closed spaces._

Jesus Christ. Eggsy had _asked_ , too. He’d asked Hume at least five times— _you sure about this?_

Hume had just droned on and on about this whole thing still needing to continue as planned, because, anyways, “We’ve got snipers on hold on nearby buildings, boys, c’mon, d’you take me for a novice?”

Except those turned out to be bloody useless, too, though, didn’t they? Because, of course, once they realised that Bainbridge had the bloody bite mark too (and therefore he was probably just trying to take Eggsy and David out for the trouble they’ve been causing to the Duchess and the spanners they’ve been trying to throw in her works for world domination), they were already inside the building, armed but very much unaided, and it was too late for any external intervention.

“Wallace, behind you!” Eggsy cries out, crouching to dodge the umpteenth bullet from the seemingly endlessly loaded guns of their assaulters and watching as David narrowly avoids a shoulder hit. _Fuck. Way too close._

He should have said something to David. Possibly, something that wouldn’t have made him sound like he was just going stubbornly against Hume, because he and Hume have been on rocky grounds since the Rome debrief. Something appealing to David’s new instinct to just trust him straight off the bat. 

However, just as he was about to, before they went into what effectively turned out to be a lion’s den of sorts, something odd started happening in Eggsy’s body: his toes, then his entire right foot started tingling as if he had sat on it for an hour. The same happened to his left hand only a few seconds later—pins and needles prickling him from the inside, a familiar but alien sensation, as if something was about to burst out from underneath his skin.

And that was distracting enough to make him drop the matter of Hume suddenly acting like a terrible handler. Even if he shouldn’t have. Even if he should’ve insisted, trusted himself. _Something’s definitely off, alright._

He fires three shells, hears a loud groan from one of the bodyguards when he takes a precise shot at a kneecap and has the man crawling on the carpeted floor. He’s out of ammo, so he takes cover again to recharge. He peeks out again, and takes the behemoth out completely with an easy headshot—just to be on the safe side.

Right. One less thing to worry about. Now, he can finally concentrate on helping David out. 

As Eggsy moves closer to him, he can’t help but notice that David’s gun lies on the floor between them, empty and discarded, dramatically out of bullets. 

Which, in turn, means that David’s now at the Clansman gadgets. Right now, he’s ripping buttons off his waistcoat, creating a chain of small explosions that somehow fail to knock out the remaining thug.

He’s way too close for more explosives, now, so he crouches to unsheathe his _sgian_ for hand-to-hand combat, all the while muttering to Eggsy that he needs cover, now, please.

“I’ve got you, don’t worry,” Eggsy says back as he gets closer still, aims at the guy’s head... and proceeds to miss by several inches. 

His stupid right hand is tingling, now. His _gun_ hand. 

_Fuck._

He’s in shock for the briefest moment, once more distracted by the eerie things happening across his nervous system. As it turns out, it’s one moment too long.

It all goes very quickly: turning to face David with an apologetic look on his face, meeting his eyes for a millisecond. That bullet ripping through the side of David’s neck. David crumpling to the ground, clutching his wound.

_No. No, no, no._

Panic. Urgency. Reflexes. 

Eggsy crouches to pluck the _sgian_ from David’s hand and unsheathes his own, presses on the gems to coat both blades in paralytic, then turns around and, at the very last second, before the giant can land a fatal blow on the back of his head, plants them both right below his belly, aiming at his privates.

The man goes very limp and rigid in the span of three, mercifully short seconds, then falls on his back, his hands still outstretched, like one of those zombies from old movies. Eggsy climbs back to his feet, pulls out his gun, and puts three bullets in his head. One would have sufficed, really. But the fucker has just shot the man Eggsy’s in love with, after all—so he definitely deserved a couple more.

 _David_. 

“Hume, fuck’s sake, send someone in!” Eggsy cries into the intercom, while flying to the corner where David is lying. He’s still applying pressure on his wound, but Eggsy can definitely tell he’s getting weaker. His eyes are wide in shock, his mouth is hanging open. 

There’s just so much blood.

Eggsy has never seen David this scared. _Eggsy_ has never been this scared.

“Already on their way,” Hume’s voice comes in, calm and collected, as if he didn’t give a fuck that this nice cream-coloured carpet is getting a crimson makeover from the blood of his best agent. _Fuck Hume._

“I’m here, David, help is coming, eh?” he murmurs, covering David’s hand with his and pressing more intensely on the wound, trying to minimise blood loss. 

David winces under his touch, but nods and tentatively smiles up at him. “T-Thank you, Eggsy.”

“Shh, shh, now, David,” Eggsy coos, getting a few curls off David’s face and caressing his cheek. “It’s alright. Let me—” he says, momentarily releasing David’s shoulder to fish inside his breast pocket for his emergency compression bandage.

It’s a fucking battle against himself, what with both his hands and forearms tingling and more or less useless, but David’s a helpful patient and they manage to get it on.

Eggsy rides in the helicopter with him, apprehensively watching as the medics check on his vitals and listening to their assessment of the tissue damage. Apparently, he’s going to be okay—despite the amount of blood, it’s a very superficial wound; he’ll have to live through a bit of pain, and he’ll be left with a rather nasty scar, but other than that he’ll be absolutely fine.

 _But what if he hadn’t been?_ Eggsy asks himself as he watches David sleep in his bed in the Clansman medical ward. _What if that fucker had aimed anywhere else, and I’d lost David forever?_

All night, sitting in the same armchair David was in when Eggsy was the convalescent one, the thought tortures him. It’s like twisting a knife in an open wound. He imagines circumstances where that bullet could have gone through David’s skull. He even pictures the unlikely scenario where the Clansman tweed would have failed to protect him, and a bullet would have gone through his heart. He sees himself having to suffer again, the way he suffered when he thought he’d lost Harry. 

And then, right then, he realises something. Suddenly, he knows what his real mission is: he needs to _protect David_. 

He doesn’t care if his own body seems to slowly be shutting down. He doesn’t care if he dies. 

As long as David lives. As long as David is safe—

That is everything he needs.

***

**Day 3 after the bite**

**_Clansman medical ward. The following day. 8:45 AM_ **

Andrew’s been talking to David for at least ten minutes. Mainly reassuring him that he’s going to be absolutely fine in a couple of days, tops—some new kind of tech that will make his wound heal even faster than it usually would—and that the cock-up in Edinburgh wasn’t anyone’s fault. Apparently, Catesby had discovered the tap on his phone, and subsequently put his men at work to try and snatch David and Eggsy, whom the entire organisation seems to consider to be Public Enemies #1 and 2, at the moment.

And, on top of everything, Andrew’s now apparently unsure where the escaped technician might be. He’s got leads in opposite sides of the country. Durham and Gloucester. Which is just _great_ , really.

“I assume you’ll want us to separate, then. To cover more ground?” he asks, grudgingly. “Hey, love,” he absent-mindedly greets Niaomhe, the nurse who’s been taking care of him, who has just walked in brandishing a new bandage.

Andrew, on the other hand, ignores her completely. “You’re not listening to me, are you, David? Now that we’ve hit a bit of a brick wall, I think it’s better that you two keep a low profile, at least for a few days. Go home, take a breather. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“What do you mean, ‘go home’?” David asks incredulously, as he leans to one side and maneuvers his arm to let Niaomhe change the bandage, which has to be secured under his armpit. He’s not looking at her, though: he’s looking at Andrew, who’s basically just taken the mission away from him and Eggsy. Which is very, very unfair.

“I mean exactly what I said: go home. Both of you, back to the flat, take a few days off. You’re clearly not fit to continue, and we need results quickly. Shall I remind you—”

“ _No_ , thanks, no need,” David replies, angry and dismissive. He doesn’t need reminding of the urgency of this entire fucking situation. He doesn’t need reminding that he’s potentially just a few days away from losing Eggsy entirely. “But Andrew, once again, I don’ think—”

“ _I’m_ making this call, now, David,” Andrew interrupts, firmly. “You go home and rest. I’m putting Fraser and Stewart on the case, at least for a couple of days.”

 _Stewart. Fine. If it’s Stewart, I can cope. He’ll let me interfere, at least._ He’d have preferred Julia, of course but Julia is still recovering; he should go see her, in fact. She’s probably just a few rooms away in the medical ward.

David nods resignedly, at Andrew, then thanks Niaomhe as she takes her leave, all the while trying to think up a snarky comeback to let Andrew know that yes, he’s agreeing to taking one or two days off, but _no_ , he’s not going to accept to just be taken off the case. He winces in pain when his head jerks automatically to the right as the door opens, and Eggsy comes walking in, looking gorgeous and refreshed, if a tad sleep-deprived.

He smiles at David, that kind of relieved and simultaneously worried half-grin of his. Then, he turns to Andrew, and his expression morphs to show sheer enmity.

“I told you to let me know when he’d be up!” Eggsy barks, not at all bothering to milden his tone, as he approaches the bed. David barely registers the second of hesitation before Eggsy settles next to him, takes his hand and just stands there, looking at Andrew, hard gaze and clenched jaw, defiant.

“And I told _you_ that you should really consider changing your tone, Galahad,” Andrew replies, equally as unfriendly. “I was just telling David that I’m sending you both home for a few days. Take stock, rest.”

“No way,” Eggsy immediately replies, clutching David’s hand tighter. “No _fucking_ way, Hume. You don’t get to put us through that hell, for months, and then, when we’re just about to score a key win in this bonkers mission, just send us home to lick our wounds. It’s not fucking fair.”

_It really isn’t, love._

David feels the need to step in. “It’s alright, Eggsy. It’s just for a few days.” _He’s just looking out for us_ , he wants to add—but he’s painfully aware of Eggsy’s animosity towards Andrew, which appears to have just been cranked up to eleven after the most recent events (and, most likely, also by the poison spreading through his nervous system), so he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want Eggsy to think he’s picking sides again. 

(Especially because, as far as he’s concerned, there are no sides to pick. Not anymore. There’s just Eggsy, now. Hang Andrew, hang the Chief, hang Clansman, and hang Kingsman, too. David’s priority is Eggsy. He needs to save Eggsy.)

Eggsy glances down at him questioningly. The dark circles under his eyes are more apparent, now, but he still looks absolutely stunning. David squeezes his hand encouragingly, a wordless _trust me, please_ , and patiently waits for Eggsy to acquiesce.

After a few seconds of silence, Eggsy does. “Fine.” He turns back to Andrew. “One day, though, that’s all you get. Just because David’s still pale as a sheet and I don’t want him to die. You know, in case you want to pull another one of your stunts.”

Andrew’s expression hardens a tad more still. “I’m warning you, Galahad. One more word, and I’ll ship you back to London on the first train,” he says, calm but definitely dangerous.

David finds himself wishing, for the umpteenth time, that Eggsy was tethered to the network. If he were, David could just tell him to keep his trap shut and let it go, _please, we really don’t need this right now_ , but of course it’s all much more difficult than he’d like it to be. Luckily, Eggsy limits himself to mock-salute Andrew, hand on his forehead like a soldier. 

(Thank God his other hand is in David’s, otherwise David would have bet his life that Eggsy would have also added the Hitler moustache sign he usually completes the look with, every time Andrew closes a call a bit too abruptly.)

Andrew doesn’t pick up on the veiled provocation, limiting himself to nod at both of them and taking his leave, lightly shaking his head.

“You’d better do something to make him more pleasant, otherwise I swear to God I’ll strangle him”, David hears Andrew’s voice in his ears, through the network.

He quickly replies. “And you’d better make sure you, Stewart and Fraser make some kind of progress in the next twenty-four hours, so that we can pick this gobshite up ourselves and get to the bloody antidote.” 

“Doing my utmost, David.”

_I can’t lose him. I can’t._

*

**_Shared Hillhead flat, Glasgow. 12:16 PM._ **

When David closes the door of the flat behind himself for the first time in almost a week and is greeted by endless quiet, spotless surfaces, bags of fresh groceries left on their kitchen table, their suitcases from Rome emptied and neatly arranged in a pile near the entrance, he somehow barely realises what it all really means. 

Then, as he stills in front of the shut front door and meets Eggsy’s eyes, he understands. 

They’re finally alone. They have a full day off. They’re home, they’re alone, and no-one will disturb them for the foreseeable future. 

_Fuck._

It takes exactly half a second to have Eggsy’s back against the nearest wall, next to that Mondrian print they both bloody hate. When he’s there, it takes no time at all to kiss Eggsy like his life depended on it—hard, exploring, urgent, hands all over, fuck the burning pain in his neck, he needs to _feel_ all of Eggsy underneath his fingers, get to know his body, learn how to get out more of these sweet noises Eggsy’s making right now, because he’s already absolutely fucking addicted to them, and nothing’s happened yet.

When David caresses them, shifting his head from left to right, deepening the kiss, he notices that Eggsy’s cheeks are just slightly prickly (likely the result of not shaving for a day or so), and he’s surprised by just how much that turns him on. He finds he has to tell Eggsy. Immediately.

He stops kissing him for a beat and their gazes meet again, darkened green eyes staring back at him, wet plush lips parted in anticipation of more.

“This,” David says, running the back of his hand over Eggsy’s cheek. “This is driving me insane.”

Eggsy leans into his touch and smirks. “Wha’, my shit stubble? You sure you’re alright, David?”

David rewards the ribbing idiot he loves with a light bite on his cheekbone, that makes Eggsy chuckle.

“Never been better,” he replies, placing a delicate kiss on the bit of skin he’s just bitten. He then moves down to kiss his cheek, his jawline, every inch of it, until he gets to his lobe, that he also bites on, feather-light and teasing. “I guess I’m just fucking crazy about you,” David whispers, because it feels like it’s finally time to say it out loud. 

Eggsy seems to full-on shudder for a second. David understands—he feels himself go through the same physical reaction to having Eggsy’s head partially in the crook of his neck, and Eggsy’s lips dangerously close to his own earlobe. Hot breath, the smell of coffee and toothpaste and clean clothes and just _him_. 

It’s a lot to take in. To be this close, to be alone, and to have Eggsy all to himself, for the first time since the night he thought he’d let him down irreparably, just feels unreal. In the best possible way.

“Well,” Eggsy whispers, in a tone that David recognises as cocky, but in which he also reads overwhelming arousal. “You’re… Fuck, David, Jesus, yes,” he moans, as David starts kissing the crook of his neck, lingering with teeth and tongue, once again revelling in the smell of his skin and the obscene noises Eggsy’s making. 

One of Eggsy’s hands quickly ends up in his hair, pressing David closer, as if to encourage David to mark him, right there, where everyone can see it. And, as if that wasn’t fucking with David’s brain enough, Eggsy’s other hand lands on the small of his back, pulling him in there, too, and David complies, he rolls his hips forward, every inch of him on every inch of Eggsy now, and it’s, fuck, it’s—

“If that wasn’t clear already,” Eggsy says, punctuating his meaning by grinding his unmistakeable erection on David’s thigh, “I’m fucking crazy about you too.”

David emerges from the crook of his neck to kiss him again, open-mouthed and deep, letting him know, making him _feel_ how long he’s wanted this, how much this means, and how good it’s going to be.

He wishes he could get his hands under those gorgeous buttocks and hoist Eggsy up against the wall. See his astounded face as David effortlessly carries him to one of their beds. Have the man he’s lusted after all this time possibly make some kind of Bond girl joke—because he’s sure that’s where Eggsy would go, and he loves that he knows this.

Instead, the lingering pain on the side of his neck spreading to his shoulder is making any kind of stunt like that virtually impossible—so he has to limit himself to walking to the bedroom, to blindly steer Eggsy, neither really looking where they’re going and inevitably bumping into furniture, letting out small laughs and groans of mild pain. 

But of course, it’s all insignificant and irrelevant when they do get to the bedroom, Eggsy’s shirt is off, and his jeans are open, and he’s looking at David like _that_. Like he’s never been happier in his entire life.

“You’re wearing too many clothes, I reckon,” Eggsy says, stepping closer and leaning on his tiptoes to rise to David’s height. He’s half-naked, his lips are millimetres from David’s, and David’s most definitely going to lose his fucking mind if Eggsy keeps teasing him like that. “Let me help you with that.”

Getting out of his shirt is less tricky than David had imagined—mostly because Eggsy expertly pulls it in the right places and avoids David having to wriggle out of it and move his injured neck and stinging shoulder too much. Then, Eggsy flips them around so David’s back is to the bed and backs him up against it, making him sit down on the mattress.

As David’s hands instinctively find Eggsy’s buttocks and he presses a kiss below his belly button and above the waistband of his boxers, David looks up at Eggsy to find him looking down in awe, eyes almost glazed with lust, and his mouth hanging open, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

(For the record, David can’t either. He can’t fucking believe any of this is happening.)

“You’re…” Eggsy starts, at the same time as David chooses to say, “Can I…”, so naturally they burst into giggles once again and Eggsy takes advantage of the tension momentarily breaking to straddle David on the bed, kissing him again, deep, hard and desperate, and it’s so good, so _good_ that David momentarily allows himself to get lost in it.

He kisses Eggsy like he hasn’t kissed anyone in years. That yearning who’s lived with him more or less since the day they’ve met just taking control of him, that yearning is guiding him, letting him know that it’s okay to lean backwards on the mattress and pulling Eggsy in with him, to have their cocks rubbing against each other, to hear Eggsy murmuring things at him, _I want you, I need you, I’m yours_ , to—

Eggsy goes very rigid, very quickly, and David can immediately feel it: something, somehow, has just shattered.

David opens his eyes to look at Eggsy, and he finds his eyes are wide in what looks like shock and disbelief.

“What’s going on, love?”

“I… David, I can’t…” Eggsy trails off, leans back to a kneeling position and David sits back up, too. Determination is painted on Eggsy’s face at once, as he places his hands on both sides of David’s face and kisses him again—eyes wide open, this time, still looking disconcerted. When they part, Eggsy mutters _fuck_ under his breath, then finally elaborates. “I can’t taste anything. Taste or... smell. It’s… It must be…”

_Another symptom. Fuck, indeed._

“Shit, Eggsy,” David manages, unhelpfully. “How’re ye feeling? Can I do anything?”

Eggsy doesn’t answer. He just sits there, still straddling David’s knees and shins, and David can see the precise moment where he breaks.

“Eggsy…” 

Eggsy touches David’s chest, inhales deeply, as if to test whether he’s just imagining things. Clearly, his suspicion isn’t confirmed, and his eyes immediately fill with tears.

“I’ve… This has never ‘appened to me before,” he says, shakily. 

David settles in a better position, his back upright and his arms wrapped steadily around Eggsy’s middle. He looks up at the wonderful, frightened creature he never wants to let go of, and he feels his heart beat out of his chest.

“I’m here, Eggsy, I’m here for you.”

Eggsy’s chest heaves as he chokes through frantic sobs, nodding lightly. “I’m just… I’m so scared. I don’t wanna die, David.”

“I won’t let you,” David replies, firm as he can muster, immediately switching back to his old soldier ways, armour on, being strong for other people, sod his own feelings. Then, however, he lets one hand come up to swipe a few tears off Eggsy’s face, and he looks deep into Eggsy’s reddened, glazed eyes, and he feels a giant knot forming in his throat. And the words hit him, then. _I don’t wanna die._ The mere thought of living without him— 

“I won’t,” he reiterates, pressing their foreheads together and cupping Eggsy’s face in both hands. _I won’t lose you. It’s never been an option._ “I promise you, love: we’re going to get that antidote.”

For a second, it looks like Eggsy is about to kiss him again. But he doesn’t; he goes in for a hug instead, a desperate, clingy hug that breaks David’s remaining defences and has him quietly shed a few tears on the warm skin of Eggsy’s chest.

After a while, they rearrange themselves and end up under the covers, holding each other. It’s soothing, and it’s somehow reassuring. For the time being, at least. 

David spends the entire evening and night following Stewart’s every move through the network, getting constant updates and giving him pointers on the case, while Stewart reassures him that, indeed, everything’s going to be alright. While all this is going on, David looks at Eggsy sleeping quietly in his arms, and tries his best to believe that Stewart is right.

***

**Day 4 after the bite**

**_Gloucester. The following evening. 10:14 PM_ **

It’s a relatively warm June evening, and Eggsy almost feels like discarding his jacket. He won’t, of course—they’ve been shot at enough the other day to know that the bulletproof suit needs to stay on. Plus, he’s supposed to be covering for David. He’s standing outside a building with an excessively gorgeous Old English façade, waiting for David to be done with the good-cop-bad-cop game that he and Stewart are playing on this potential informant, whom Stewart tracked down yesterday and who just will not talk.

However, Eggsy has no doubt that David will manage. He can be _very persuasive_ , when he wants.

Bored in his solitude, patrolling an empty street for inexistent threats, Eggsy thinks of the past twenty-four hours and sighs loudly. He can barely believe how quickly David’s wound healed—it’s an angry red line on the side of his neck, now, but it’s fully closed, and there’s already new skin forming. Eggsy suspects that it’ll be perfectly cicatrised in possibly another day, tops. He really, really needs Merlin to borrow this tech from Clansman—it’s way too good to pass on.

He thinks of his and David’s time together, their second brush with finally getting somewhere. It felt good to kiss David again. It felt right to have David’s body pressed against his. It felt absolutely perfect to be so close, so vulnerable, so needy, so out of control, to surrender himself to love and lust and just him, David, whom he’s wanted for all this time. Finally _have_ him.

And then, he thinks of why that hasn’t really happened. He thinks of symptoms piling up. The incredibly eerie sensation of not being able to taste or smell anything, which hasn’t left him since he first realised what was going on. Unlike the headaches and the tingling, this isn’t really crippling in his day-to-day life as a man and a professional spy—but, somehow, it’s scarier. It’s scarier, because it’s new. Something he’s never experienced, and something he never thought he’d experience. It’s an unmistakeable sign that he’s getting worse.

Almost on cue, a new wave of migraine hits him. Groaning, he shuts his eyes tightly and fishes in his breast pocket for the tube of strong painkillers that the Clansman doctor gave him the other day, and which is already almost empty. He swallows two rather big pills without the aid of any liquid, and he allows himself to close his eyes again, with his back rested against the wall, waiting for the drugs to kick in.

“Everything alright, sir?” a female voice asks, breaking the silence.

Eggsy opens his eyes immediately and straightens himself up as he takes in the figure of a rather stunning police constable. A tall, slender, Asian-looking woman, with dark skin and big brown eyes and a quizzical look on her face. _She must have just come into the street from around the corner_ , he tells himself. _That’s why I missed her_. Still, he blames himself for his momentary lack of vigilance.

“All good, officer,” he replies, trying to smile through the agonizing pain in his temples. “I do appreciate your concern.” He attempts a wink. Judging by the officer’s brows, furrowing a tad more, he realises he’s failed to convince her.

“Are you sure? You don’t look well,” she asks again, touching his arm reassuringly. 

Just then, he feels the pain starting to fade away at an impressive pace. _Thank fuck._

“I really am alright, thank you ma’am,” he repeats, grinning more convincingly now, turning up the charm that has gotten him out of so many sticky situations in the past. 

She nods and smiles back, looking confident he’s telling the truth. “Can I ask what you’re doing here, sir? This is a closed neighbourhood.”

_Oh, so that’s why she’s here. Fuck, should’ve tried to be less conspicuous._

“Just waiting for a mate to come down, ma’am. Lads’ night out, see,” he replies, nonchalantly. He looks at her intensely, the way he usually looks at extremely attractive men and women he would be partial to spending some time with—for work and for pleasure alike. “He lives just up there,” he adds, pointing at a lit window of a nearby building.

She nods again, but purses her lips sternly. “I’m going to have to ID you, sir. If you don’t mind. Someone has called this in, and we’re under obligation to file a full report, even if there are no real disturbances.”

 _Jesus fuck, posh people and their neighbourhood watches_ , Eggsy thinks, mentally rolling his eyes as he dazzles the officer with another toothy smile.

“But of course, ma’am. No problem at all,” he replies, his hand going back into his breast pocket to pull out his Kingsman Tailors monogrammed cardholder, where his driver’s license is. As he pulls it out, he feels the tingling in his hand start again, which causes a full spasm, the result of which is both his wallet and the tube of painkillers falling onto the pavement between him and the officer.

Mortified, he closes his fist to hide the tremor and apologises to the woman, as he bends over to retrieve the items with his other hand. He only gets to the cardholder, however, because she’s already picked up the tube herself.

She examines it, for a second, then raises her gaze to meet his.

“What is in this tube, sir?” she asks, raising the unmarked plastic cylinder.

“Painkillers,” he replies, simply. “Get pretty bad headaches, see.” He hesitates for a second, then decides to be more specific. “Vicodin.”

“Vicodin,” she echoes, pensively. “Vicodin is a controlled drug, sir. Do you have a prescription for it?” she asks, somehow very clearly meaning to imply that he wouldn’t.

And, well, she’s not wrong in her assumption. _Oh, fuck’s sake._

“Of course I do, ma’am. I don’t carry it with me, I’m afraid, but I’d be happy to phone my doctor so he can confirm that I’m indeed allowed to take this,” is what Eggsy thinks he’s saying.

In reality, he’s just making a series of incoherent sounds. This only registers at the end of what he thought was a full, articulate sentence that would have gotten him out of the woods of this impromptu inspection by the woman in blue. 

He sees the confusion and the surprise plastered onto her face, and he knows he’s fucked. He tries to say something else, explain himself, anything—but another string of incomprehensible sounds is the only thing that he can muster. 

“Right,” she says, briskly. “Something is clearly not right, here, sir. Please hold on, I’m going to get some help.” She takes a step back as she pulls her radio from its spot on her belt, and Eggsy hears the static sound of it coming to life.

Before she can say anything, however, he grabs her arm and pleads her with her eyes and frantic hand gestures not to call it in. He has a solution. He will type on his phone. 

Getting it out means opening his suit jacket again to fish it out of his other breast pocket. Unfortunately, as he does so, he reveals the harness holster he’s wearing, and the gun nestled in it. 

The officer’s eyes widen, and he can see her hand going immediately to her own gun, ready to draw it out.

“You seem to be carrying a handgun, sir. I’m going to have to see a permit for it. Right now, please.”

Eggsy... doesn’t have one. Which means he’s in even deeper shit, now. Everyone who carries a gun and isn’t wearing a uniform is supposed to have a permit for it on their person at all times. Then again, no-one’s supposed to _know_ that secret service agents are carrying. Heck, no one’s supposed to know they even _exist_.

Of course he doesn’t have a bloody permit.

“If you don’t have a permit, I’ll have to ask you to hand me the gun, sir. Please. And you’ll have to follow me to the station,” she says, steely, her other hand fondling the handcuffs on the other side of her belt.

If he could talk, Eggsy would be making up an elaborate fib, distracting her with his smooth talk enough for her to lower her guard and not notice that he’s reaching for his Kingsman watch, fumbling with it to set it to _stun_. 

Instead, of course, she immediately does notice him moving his hand suspiciously, very likely thinks he’s reaching for his gun, and expertly pins him to the wall, flips him over, and cuffs him.

As the left side of his face hits the bricks, he thinks of calling for help. He sends a quick message to David via his glasses, and he waits. 

Just a bunch of seconds later, he hears the front door of the building bust open and a gun being loaded.

“Let him go,” David’s voice comes in, low and dangerous.

“Can’t sir, sorry,” she replies, tugging on the cuffs and putting Eggsy between herself and a very angry-looking, gun-wielding David Budd. She points her own gun at him, keeping a strong grip on the cuffs behind Eggsy’s back. “Lower your weap—” she trails off. 

Right then, the expression on David’s face changes, from irate determination to shocked understanding. 

“God,” the officer breathes, quite close to Eggsy’s ear. “PS Budd, is it really you?”

Before David can reply, Eggsy feels the grip on his cuffs slacken and hears the sound of a body hitting the ground. He spins round and sees Stewart walking towards them, smug as, while tucking something back inside his shirt cuff.

“It’s a bracelet, son. The studs on it are tranquiliser darts,” he explains to Eggsy, raising an eyebrow and smiling. “Ye wee bairns really wid be lost without me, eh?” he chuckles. Then, he turns to David and his expression is suddenly unreadable. “I thought we’d gotten them all. All yer colleagues. Her memory should have been fully wiped. She should _not_ know who ye are.”

“She wasn’t on the list I gave Hume,” David explains, all of a sudden looking like a beaten dog. “I didn’t want her to forget me.”

Stewart scoffs. He looks like he’s going to say something, but then visibly changes his mind. He rummages in his pockets for something, then walks closer to Eggsy and starts working on picking the lock on his handcuffs.

“Stewart, I can explain,” David says, weakly.

“We don’ have time for this now, Wallace,” he waves him off, as soon as he’s done freeing Eggsy’s wrists. “We have a lead tae follow. But also, actually,” he says as he turns back to Eggsy, flashing those striking blue eyes at him, “mind telling us what the _feck_ happened, Galahad?”

For the first time since the Clansman agents came out of the building, Eggsy actually tries talking; to his surprise, he succeeds in forming a full sentence.

“She approached me, asked if I were doing alright. I wasn’t, I had another terrible migraine. She pried a bit, asked me for ID, and it all escalated from there. She saw my tube of Vicodin, asked if I had a prescription for it, and… I couldn’t answer.”

“You what?” Stewart asks, incredulous. “Why? Ye _do_ have one.”

“I meant I… I couldn’t speak. I heard what was coming out of my mouth, and it wasn’t words. It was just... sounds? She got alarmed. Sh—”

He does finish his sentence, but it doesn’t sound like what he wanted to say. It sounds like incoherent noises again. 

Right then, he feels a wave of panic hit. It’s the dread in David’s eyes that does it for him. The way David’s looking at him like he’s about to drop dead in front of their very eyes.

“Bloody hell, Eggsy,” David utters, stepping closer and clutching Eggsy’s upper arms in his hands. “We need tae get ye back. He needs a doctor, Stewart.”

“Ooooh don’ worry, loverboy, I’m on it already. I’ve put out a message in the shared network, so even our tailor attachés can see it. It’ll be a race, I guess.”

*

**_Some field near Gloucester. Forty-five minutes later._ **

As it turns out, the one who wins the race is Merlin.

In normal times, Eggsy would be ecstatic to see him. He hasn’t had the pleasure of his quartermaster’s company for a good couple of months, now, and Merlin’s coolness and sharp wit really were sorely missed.

Except, of course, the circumstances that brought him here now aren’t joyous at all—and he seems to have gotten himself into a full-blown screaming match with David over them, too. They are actually shouting, now, and it’s only partially to make themselves heard over the relentless noise of the helicopter blades cutting the air above them.

“Ye can’t do this, Merlin!” David bellows, fire in his eyes. “We’re so close to finding this thing—he has to be there when we do!” 

He’s furious, Eggsy can tell, but he’s effectively pleading. There is a desperate look in his eyes

“I can, Wallace, and I _will_ ,” Merlin replies, sternly. “He needs medical assistance. Tonight’s events proved that it’s way past time he got some.”

“But—” David tries to retort, but Stewart touches his forearm gently and butts in.

“He’s right, David. Let it go. He’s no help tae us in this state, and we’re only endangering him further if we keep this up.”

“Thank God at least someone’s still got some common sense left, here. Fuck’s sake, I can’t believe Hume even cleared this.” When Merlin swears this deliberately, Eggsy knows it to mean he’s absolutely livid. Sure enough, he immediately goes back in for more. Brandishes Eggsy’s tube of painkillers in front of him to show David. “Fecking _Vicodin_? You’re giving my brain-damaged best agent opioid painkillers and letting him out into the field? Bloody ridiculous. I _am_ taking Galahad back to London, and I’ll have a wee word with Hume about this whole masquerade you at Clansman dare to call a ‘special op’. Good night, Agents,” he delivers, deadpan, then turns his back on David and Stewart, taking a few steps over to the open helicopter door. “C’mon, Eggsy,” he beckons. “Off we pop.”

“Come along, David,” Stewart says, taking David’s hand and pulling him away slightly. “We have tae go.” David yanks his hand away from his grasp and quietly swears.

 _Give us a few_ , Eggsy would say—if he could actually speak. He tries, but nothing comes out. He just touches David’s arm, then, and looks at Stewart, hopefully eloquently enough that he will understand his meaning. He seems to, because he nods, bids him and Merlin goodnight, and walks off towards the car they all drove here in.

Eggsy moves closer to David, cupping his handsome, worry-stricken face in both hands. _It’ll be okay_ , he wants to say. _It’ll all be fine._

“Please don’t go. Ye _have_ to be there when we find it. I can take care of you until then, I promise.” He sounds shaky, strangled. He looks absolutely broken. Eggsy knows what he’s not saying out loud: his eyes are speaking for him. _Don’t leave me. I need you._

Eggsy steps a bit closer still, steps on his tiptoes, and kisses him softly, sliding one hand into his curls and the other on the left side of his chest, feeling his heart beating wildly against it. When they part, a single tear is falling down David’s face. Eggsy feels a knot form in his throat as he wipes it away and kisses him again—in wordless reassurance, or maybe as a promise, he’s not quite sure at the moment.

“Eggsy,” David whispers, still holding him close. He looks as intense and breathtakingly handsome as ever—but there’s something else in his eyes, too. Eggsy’s palm over David’s heart picks up on _something_ , too. 

Eggsy wants to reply, say his name too, but he just nods, enraged at his brain failing him so spectacularly, in what feels like such a special moment between them. He nods, smiles weakly, and holds his breath, waiting for David to continue.

“Eggsy, I love you.”

_Fuck._

Tears of happiness and frustration start falling down Eggsy’s face. He clutches his own chest, beats lightly on it to make a point. _I love you too. I love you like I’ve never loved anyone before._ Then, he takes David’s hand and puts it over his heart. 

“Galahad, we need to go!” Merlin hollers from the open helicopter door. “Hurry!”

Eggsy doesn’t turn round, favouring to raise his free hand and flip Merlin off instead. That makes David smile, and Eggsy can tell it’s genuine, now. To make things even clearer, Eggsy presses David’s palm more firmly against his own chest. _Feel how much I love you._

David nods in understanding, relief spreading across his face as he leans in for another kiss. “I love you,” he repeats when they part, foreheads still pressed together. “I love you, and I’ll be back for you. I promise.”

_**TO BE CONTINUED** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen.  
>  Yeah. Yeah, I know, I _know_ how these cliffhangers get worse and worse every passing week. I swear I didn't mean to leave this one hanging quite as bad—but, as I mentioned, there was a wee word count issue, and I preferred taking it easy on everyone and going this way. I hope you don't haaaate meeeeeeee.
> 
> So. The tally of symptoms is rapidly growing: headache, tingling, loss of taste and smell, aphasia... Poor baby boy. But you know Eggsy: he's not giving up for shit.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed that wee servicey makeout scene I got in there for you—honestly, it's also in there for me and [soft_science](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_science), as a reward for this whole slow burn situation. Re: that, by the way, I'm going to make you an official promise, right here, right now: the sex is coming. It's coming, not in the next chapter, but in the one after. Hand on heart. We've all been very patient, and we need a proper reward ;)
> 
> Have a good'un, lovely people. Thank you for sticking with me.
> 
> Love,
> 
> C xx
> 
> P.S.: please, please, please, if you're still enjoying this, consider leaving me a wee comment. It honestly makes my day, every single time.  
>  I found this on tumblr, a few weeks back, and I think it perfectly sums up the way I feel about reader engagement on this lovely platform:
> 
> So yeah, if you enjoyed this and you want to make this kitty very happy indeed—you know what to do <3


	18. XIV. Antidotum - II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "David, can you promise me something?”
> 
> “Aye, love. Anything.”
> 
> “Don’t die. And come back to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well helloooo there, good people!  
> First of all, let me tell you how happy it made me to read the overwhelming amount of love in the comments of the last chapter. Seriously, hadn't had so many reactions in a while, and it was absolutely amazing. Thank you thank you thank you to each and every one of you who chose to leave a comment. You're making this whole thing worthwhile ❤  
> *end of sappy moment*  
> *dries happy tears*
> 
> Right!! Folks, here we are again, with the second and last installment of this crazy post-bite week. What a whirlwind it's been. And, well, sorry it actually lasted _two weeks_ , instead of one—you know, life gets in the way, at times, unfortunately, and one needs a little more time to actually write the bloody thing :D  
> But we are back, now, and we're bringing you another action-packed one. Are you ready?
> 
> As usual, here's the **[playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6TJ6YCXdm5Mi4LUvmD8Mhb?si=qsJ0NK0MTlqCeqsKbc3sYg)**. Please focus on the second half of it, if you will, and especially the last three songs, which are just *chef's kiss* perfect, under every aspect, for our final sequence.
> 
> Happy reading, and see you on the other side ;)

_**XIV. Antidotum - II** _

**Day 5 after the bite**

**_Minehead, Somerset. Late afternoon._ **

There’s barely been time to breathe, today.

It’s 3 PM, and David and Stewart are already two car chases, one shootout, and a few superficial wounds in—and, to add insult to injury, they’ve not yet managed to actually locate the cure.

Catesby and his men are also, incidentally, on the woman's tail. That's the origin of all this unnecessary fuss, and it's proving deeply unhelpful. It's the Duchess's men, really, not Catesby's, but David gets the sense that Catesby's narcissistic enough to consider himself the head of this entire special op. He doesn't have a clue that _he's_ the reason why not one but two secret organizations currently know as much as they do about the Duchess's intents and purposes. All because he likes a shag and a bit of snow a tad too much. What a piece of work. But who is David to judge, eh?

Annoyingly, the constant interference by Catesby’s goons was enough to make them lose track of the lab technician and her helper. These men, evidently on a do-or-die double mission to retrieve the fugitive and take down Clansman, in turn, completely derailed the anticipated outcome of David and Stewart’s brief stakeout at a harbour where the technician was supposed to meet a potential buyer. As a result, instead of walking away with a cure and a new asset, they got shot at, took down a couple of men themselves, and proceeded to completely lose track of their target. Then, as if that hadn’t been enough, the mounting frustration of the day was cemented by Stewart’s legendary temper, which made a rather spectacular appearance. He roared his frustration into the sea air, cocked his gun, and shot three bullets above his head, scaring a giant flock of seagulls who were slumbering on the roofs of nearby boats.

Needless to say, once they got the go-ahead from Hume to throw in the towel on this so far, disastrous day, they didn’t hesitate to do so. They quickly checked themselves into a small seaside hotel to rest, quietly mull over the events of the day, reassess, and redefine plans. This is just a momentary setback. As a team, they have an incalculable number of successes under their belts, after all: David’s sure they’re going to manage this one, too.

Since Stewart has taken residency in the shower for the foreseeable future, David has opted to strip down to his boxers and vest, and is currently lying on a twin bed, wondering how it’s even possible to be so ineffective, so many times over. He knows, however, that beating himself up will not get him anywhere: years of failures and bitterness and anger have taught him that, at least. So, he decides to finally allow himself to do the thing he hasn’t even had time to think about, today, but that has definitely been weighing on his mind: check on Eggsy. He hasn’t had any news off him or Kingsman for more than fifteen hours, and he’s starting to get worried.

He pings Andrew within the network, only to receive a short and pissy reply about how Eggsy ‘isn’t his responsibility anymore’ and how, if David really wanted to know anything, he should ‘check with London directly’. _Jesus fecking shit_ , he ponders, while he’s dialling Merlin’s direct line, _the sadistic handlers must have had a first-class row. Trouble in paradise, indeed._

“Wallace,” Merlin’s voice booms inside David’s ears, after very few rings. “Ye’d better have good news, if ye’re calling me directly. I really don’ have time for anything else, right now.”

“And a good afternoon to you too, Merlin,” David replies, rolling his eyes. _Thank God we’re not on video._ “No good news, I’m afraid. Jus’ wanted tae check on Eggsy. How is he?”

“Sedated, for the time being,” Merlin says, calmly.

David raises his voice without realising. “ _Sedated_? What the fuck?” 

“We had to. He was being very erratic; kept getting off his bed, walking around, calling yer name. Demanded clothes, his glasses and a gun, so he could go back out there and help ye.”

David’s heart feels like it’s being clenched in an iron grip.

“He’s… He’s talking again, then? Walking around? Don’ ye think he may be getting better, then?”

“Ah, lad,” Merlin sighs, in the tone of a man who, if he could, would be touching your shoulder in compassion. “He’s not. Blood tests came back with several values all over the shop. We insisted on a brain scan, but he wouldn’t let us give him one. Kept saying he was fine, that he wanted to get back—but then he’d get another migraine and spasms in his limbs. He’s very confused, Wallace, and the doctors are worried.”

“So that’s why you’ve sedated him. For the brain scan.”

“Aye.”

“Will ye keep me posted on the results?” David asks, trying not to sound like he’s pleading—even if he definitely is.

“He’s in right now. I’ll talk to the doctors as soon as they’re done, and I’ll send ye some updates,” Merlin says, kindly.

David breathes out in mild relief. “Thanks, Merlin.”

“Don’ mention it,” Merlin replies, dismissively. “But hey, Wallace?”

“Aye?”

“Please, hurry up.” His tone is grave, now. Serious. _You care about him too, then._

“We will. I will. I won’t let him—” David trails off, tears filling his eyes. _Fuck. Fuck._

“I trust you. Speak soon, Wallace. Be careful, out there.”

***

**Day 6 after the bite**

**_Kingsman HQ medical ward. The following day. 11:37 AM_ **

Eggsy opens his eyes slowly and somewhat tentatively. His eyelids are heavy but, for the first time in days, his head feels surprisingly clear.

It only takes him a handful of seconds to decide he’s going to try it again. He turns left and right, and he sees no-one around. His clothes—dry-cleaned suit, polished Oxfords, and tie—hanging in the open closet in front of his bed look like they’ve actively been waiting for him to get his arse off the bed and get back in the field. Get back to David.

He doesn’t think about it twice: he comes to a standing position, fights the momentary vertigo that comes with being on his feet for the first time in—well, he can’t even say how long, really—and quietly pads to the closet, barefoot. The only thing covering him is a breezy hospital gown, and his bum is very much exposed to the elements for the brief time it takes him to pull up a pair of boxers.

“Nice arse,” a familiar voice asserts, from somewhere behind Eggsy, effectively making him jump on the spot in surprise. “Agent Wallace is a lucky man.”

“Oh my God, Rox,” Eggsy says, excitedly, spinning round and taking a few quick steps to hug Roxy as tight as he can. “I’m so fuckin’ happy to see you!”

“Likewise, sweet cheeks,” Roxy mutters, planting a soft kiss on his cheek. They part, and she takes a good look at him. She’s obviously very concerned. “Although I’d hoped to only have you back home once you’d taken those bastards down. Victorious, smug as. Certainly not _brain-damaged_ ,” she says, emphasising her distress. “What the fuck happened, Eggs?”

Eggsy sighs. “I know, I’ve fucked up. Believe me, I _know_ ,” he says, resignedly. Then, he glances at the clock over his bed, which informs him it’s almost midday, and that he has been MIA from the special op and the whole of Clansman for almost a day and a half. “I wish I had time to explain, Rox. I promise I will, soon as I’m done with this thing.”

Roxy cocks an eyebrow at him. “And where d’you think you’re going, exactly?” she asks, eyeing him, then the closet he’s already moving back towards.

Eggsy is caught off-guard by the question. He realises he has absolutely no fucking clue where he’d go, and he doesn’t see his glasses anywhere—which he could use to contact David and get his location. 

“I… I ‘adn’t thought about that, had I?” he admits, frustratedly, crossing his arms in front of his bare torso and feeling very naked all of a sudden. 

“Exactly,” Roxy confirms, walking to the closet and pulling a plain black T-shirt out of a drawer and handing it to him. “Now put this on, and some trousers, too, and then we can talk about how you’re not going anywhere any time soon, eh?”

Eggsy smirks at her as he plucks the shirt from her hands. It’s one of those Kingsman-issue workout shirts, made out of some kind of special technical material; it fits him like a glove, and it makes him look like actual Superman. Roxy knows her way to his heart and vulnerable 30-year-old ego, it seems.

“So,” he starts, once he’s back sitting on his bed and she’s sitting in the armchair, which she’d cleverly moved close to the wall next to his bed so as not to be in his peripheral when he woke up. “Are you here to babysit me, Lancelot? Is that what’s happening, here?” he asks, sassily.

“I most certainly am, _Galahad_ ,” she replies, with an equal amount of affectionate mouthiness. “Merlin was getting desperate. Said you kept trying to escape, and that he would rather not keep you sedated or chain you to the bed like a mental patient, if he could help it—”

“Oh, how _gracious_ of him,” Eggsy interrupts, sardonic. _Seriously. Chain me to the bed. I’d like to see him try._

“—so he sent me in,” Roxy finishes, smiling and rolling her eyes dramatically. “Said I could take a few days off, spend some time with you.” She goes very serious, all of a sudden, as if a thought had stricken her suddenly. “Maybe he…” she trails off, shakes her head. “No, shouldn’t think like that.”

“What? What do you know?” Eggsy asks, alarmed. Roxy shakes her head again, looking at her hands in her lap. “Oh c’mon! I’m sure he’s not been telling me everything. Has he told _you_ anything? Rox, am I…” he interrupts himself, fighting the sudden wave of anxiety hitting him as he realises what he’s about to say. “Am I _dying_?”

Roxy stands up and takes a step closer to the bed, so she can take his hand. She looks down at him, thoughtful and a tad tormented.

“No, he doesn’t think you are. Not exactly. But he did tell me that the brain scan shows rapid deterioration of your motor cortex and centres of speech. If this continues spreading at this speed, the damage might be irreversible.”

“But I feel _fine_!” Eggsy protests. It’s only half a lie, too: he does, he feels better than he has in days. He feels raring, ready to go. He can speak properly again. He doesn’t have a migraine, nor does he feel one coming. All his limbs seem to be working properly, no hint of weird tingling or spasms. “I’ve gotta go out there, Rox.”

“Absolutely not,” Roxy replies, firmly. “If you get out like this, you’re just going to get yourself killed.”

“Oh, don’t worry, babe. I was planning on wearing the monkey suit,” Eggsy replies, cheekily, winking at her and glancing at the bulletproof tailored wonder hanging in the closet across the room.

Roxy rolls her eyes again, still with a relatively straight face and visibly trying to keep up her stern best friend, I’m-doing-this-for-your-own-good act.

“You _know_ what I mean, Eggs. Don’t be a reckless arse. I can’t let you out of here, alright?” 

“Alright, fine, Jesus,” Eggsy replies, petulantly. Then, he gets an idea. “But I’m not gonna be just sittin’ ‘ere all day. I feel alright, I told ya. And we’re at HQ. And it’s lunchtime, everyone’s surely on their break. Want to spar for a bit?”

Roxy seems to consider it for a few seconds. Then, her steely look turns into a benevolent smirk. 

“Yeah, fine. Promise I’ll go easy on you, little bird,” she says, with a wink and a slight flick of her high ponytail. 

*

**_Kingsman HQ training room. Ten minutes later._ **

“I thought,” Eggsy pants, as he squats to narrowly avoid Roxy’s jab, “you was gonna go easy on me.”

Roxy chuckles, jumps to one side, does half a pirouette, and slaps him playfully on the bum.

“Oh, but I _am_. Not my fault if you can’t keep up, sweetheart,” she replies, smirking as she resets. Her guard is up, and so is her left eyebrow. “Tired, Eggs?”

“Nah, this isn’t over,” Eggsy says, confidently, reaching for a towel to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “I ‘aven’t even told you about what happened the other day, yet.”

Roxy’s smirk becomes a tad more devilish still. “Oh? So you _did_ fuck him?”

Eggsy can’t help but blush, at that. Not that he’s not the filthiest person on the planet, on a normal day—and, especially with Roxy, he’s never shy when it comes to talking about this kind of stuff. Except now… Now it’s about David, and it’s different. Instinctively, he feels like it’s something he wants to protect. Especially since nothing’s even _happened_ , yet.

“No,” Eggsy huffs out, jumping forward and taking a swing at her, which she promptly blocks by raising her forearm. “No I didn’t _fuck_ him.”

“You want to, though,” Roxy says—not a question. She knows him well enough to make it a direct assessment. 

Eggsy rolls his eyes. “Of _course_ I want to. But…” he trails off, suddenly very interested in a small stain on the wall behind Roxy. _But it’s not just that_ , he wants to say. _But I’ve fallen in love with him._

He shakes his head, takes another step. He doesn’t register it immediately, but it’s plain after a couple of seconds: suddenly, everything has just started spinning. Roxy in front of him, the weights and the machines around them, the entire room—like a reel, a fairground attraction, everything goes round and round, until Eggsy’s head feels like it’s exploding.

“You alright, Eggs?” Roxy asks, visibly worried, lowering her guard.

“I…” _I’m not. I’m really not._

The nausea hits him hard and strong, then. It’s as if Roxy had just punched him in the guts, it’s so bad. He lets himself fall, then. He’s not in control of his body anymore, but, mid-fall, he realises that maybe hitting the hard, rough floor of the gym will knock him unconscious and deliver him from the series of unpleasant sensations he’s experiencing all at once, and he starts to hope for exactly that. Another blackout. _Please, make it stop._

He doesn’t hit the floor, however. He gets caught before he has the chance to—safe in Roxy’s arms. He takes in the dread painted on her face, hears her call out for help, then falls unconscious.

*

“Honestly, Lancelot,” a deep voice is saying, as soon as Eggsy stirs awake. “I was expecting more from you. You’ve really let me down.”

Eggsy opens his eyes. The scene in front of him is exactly what he was expecting to see: Merlin, looking (almost) as furious as that day Eggsy got high, stole his secret stash of shortbread and ate it all, and Roxy, looking apologetic but still fierce as ever. They both seem oblivious to Eggsy’s awakening.

“I’m sorry, Merlin, I really am,” she replies, not sounding like she fully means it. “The poor man was going stir-crazy. It was just a bit of exercise. I didn’t think anything bad could happen.”

“What part of _brain damage_ isn’t clear to you, lassie?” Merlin barks, waving his clipboard in Eggsy’s direction but not looking directly at him. “Do you _want_ him to die?”

“I thought he couldn’t die from this?” Roxy replies, stubborn.

“Figure of speech, Lancelot. Don’ be pedantic with me.”

“You can’t really out-pedant the king of pedantry, Rox,” Eggsy butts in. Both Merlin and Roxy turn to look at him, and Roxy walks closer to the bed.

“Oh, Eggs. You okay?” she asks, in a smaller voice than before.

“M’alright, love. But sorry, I’d really like to know now: what’s all this about dying and not dying? Care to explain, Merlin?”

Merlin sighs resignedly, walks by the foot of the bed, and launches on an explanation. 

What has emerged from Kingsman and Clansman’s joint extensive research efforts on the Duchess’s augmented bugs is that their poison seems to have two vastly different effects, depending on the subject. The difference, it seems, is that the minds of strong-willed individuals subconsciously resist the effects of the bite, enhancing the effect of the poison and, as a result, ultimately causing their bodies to shut down completely. However, it seems that, as evidenced by the multiple disappearances from morgues and cemeteries, these people aren’t _actually_ dead: instead, they are removed, collected—but for what purpose, no one knows. Weaker subjects, on the other hand, remain a part of the community, and look like they’re being used as pawns to spread the Duchess’s political or social agenda. Turning on the evening news is enough to confirm this theory: there has been an obvious and quite precipitous rise of intense climate activism and fierce fight against animal products or any other form of exploitation of natural resources, all across Europe. It's mainly politicians. People who have power to make significant changes. Their symptoms, if any, are mild; the main indicator that they have been compromised is the radical change in their behaviour and opinions—as well as the more obvious bite mark on the back of their neck. 

“Mind control, basically,” Merlin concludes. “And, according to what Hume is telling me, the antidote that this technician developed was never supposed to be distributed. They had it in the wings, just in case unwanted side effects started popping up amongst the more prominent ‘weak’ subjects—i.e., some kind of bad reaction that’d make them drop dead, for some reason.”

“That idiot Catesby told me they had a few actual deaths,” Eggsy recalls, out loud. “But he didn’t mention any names. Probably just a coupla poor sods who kicked the bucket behind the scenes, in the name of science,” he muses, doing air quotes.

“Aye, very likely,” Merlin agrees. “Point being, though: since you, Eggsy, are very obviously showing severe symptoms, haven’t started going off about climate change, and, despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary, you’re not _actually_ a halfwit—we believe you’re one of the stronger subjects.”

 _Flattering_ , Eggsy thinks to himself, managing a half smirk. _However, wait. What?_

“Does that mean that I’m—”

“—going to ‘die’, yes,” Merlin finishes for him. “Or, well, shut down, I should say. And we’re not sure how to stop it, or what to do if it does happen. I guess what I’m trying to say is that we’re not sure what will happen to you. We don’t know where the stronger subjects are brought nor what becomes of them, once the Duchess has gotten her claws on them. Hume’s people sound like they’re hard at work on that Iceland lead, but we have no clear location for any laboratory or base of operations quite yet.”

_Fuck. I really am gonna die._

Eggsy feels himself starting to lose it again, the way he did when he was kissing David and realised he’d lost his sense of taste and smell. But doesn’t want to cry in front of Merlin, so he swallows a huge gulp of self-pity and fear of the unknown, and nods stoically. 

“Understood.”

“But it won’t come to it, right?” Roxy asks, clutching Eggsy’s hand and looking at Merlin. “You were just telling me that Clansman has a new lead?”

Merlin nods. “Aye. The last report I got from Hume informed me that Agents Wallace and Stewart have just split to follow separate leads. Stewart is headed to Cornwall, while Wallace is coming to London. Apparently the Clansman pilot has picked up on some rogue radio com during one of his recon flights, and has passed the information down to Wallace. We’re still waiting on updates from both Agents but, because of our geographic proximity to Wallace’s destination, Hume has required backup for him.”

“Perfect,” Eggsy says, rubbing his hands together. “Get me my suit, my glasses and my gun, then: I’m going in.” 

“No, Eggsy: _Lancelot_ is going. You’re going to be a good boy for once and stay here,” Merlin says, sternly. It sounds like he’s going to add something along the lines of ‘for fuck’s sake!’ to emphasise his meaning, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes his leave. “Goodnight, Eggsy. Behave.”

Once they’re alone, Roxy sits on the side of the bed and takes one of his hands into both of hers, stroking it softly.

“Don’t worry, Eggsy: we’ll find the bloody thing. And I promise I’ll send in your beau to say hi before we leave, alright?” she says, with a cheeky wink and a dazzling smile. “Now sleep, you overexcited little monster. It’ll all be better tomorrow.”

***

**Day 7 after the bite**

**_Kingsman HQ. The following day. 9:23 AM_ **

Just by driving up to the ridiculously conspicuous building that houses Kingsman HQ, David knows a simple pick-up will get turned into a power play of sorts. 

Greeting him, aside the somewhat pleasant crackling noise of gravel crushed under the wheels of his car, are four men in black, armed to their teeth, wearing sunglasses and earpieces, and four German shepherds, sitting wisely by their sides, looking alert and vigilant. He sees one of the men speaking quietly into a radio, and seconds later a small (and strikingly beautiful) suited woman exits the mansion’s main door, coming to a halt at the top of the stairs and looking sternly down at David.

“False face must hide what the false heart doth know,” David confidently delivers, as instructed by Merlin. 

(He still thinks a quote from the Scottish Play as code to verify his identity is a tad too cheesy for such formal matters, but he likes the sound of the words rolling off his tongue. They make him feel like a classically trained actor.)

The woman nods, then gives him a small smile. “Welcome to Kingsman, Agent Wallace,” she says, holding out a hand. 

David shakes it and returns the smile. “Lancelot, I presume.”

“Very nice to finally meet you in the flesh, Wallace. I’ve heard _so much_ about you,” she says, with a glint of something in her eyes that David decides, momentarily, to ignore. “Please, follow me. There’s someone you should see, before we go.”

*

David and Lancelot walk briskly through the grandiose halls of the Kingsman mansion until they get to a lift, which turns out to move in more directions than just up or down. They go a few floors underground, then move horizontally across a giant hangar full of planes of different shapes and sizes, until they finally come to a halt in front of a big white door with a golden letter H painted on it.

_Oh._

“Lancelot, are we—”

“Yes,” Lancelot interrupts him. “I promised him. I know we don’t have long, but I could tell he wanted to see you. Just in case, you know...” she doesn’t finish her sentence, shakes her head, and looks down, as if she’d just remembered something dreadful.

“Thank you,” David says, as the glass lift doors open. _Fuck, she looks scared too. Does she know something I don’t?_

He wants to ask; he also wants to say something more, something reassuring, something encouraging, but he’s not feeling particularly chipper himself, so he opts for following Lancelot through the corridors in silence, ignoring the anxiety and the dread, which have taken permanent residence into the pit of his stomach, stir back from their slumber.

After a brief walk past a few rooms, Lancelot stops in front of a door and turns to look at David.

“He’s in here. Oh, before I forget,” she says, fishing for something in the front pocket of her impeccably tailored trousers, “give him these. He can’t come, but I want him in on the action.” She hands David a pair of familiar specs, which he pockets discreetly. “And hey, Wallace? I’m going against direct orders, here, so… Mum’s the word, alright?”

“Understood, ma’am,” David replies, unable to help himself from smiling at how deeply Lancelot seems to care for Eggsy. 

“Five minutes,” she states, looking like she’s reading something in her glasses. “I’ve managed to send Merlin on a wild goose chase, but I’ve just been notified of his ETA back here—around five minutes. Go on, get in there.”

“Thank you,” he replies, truly grateful. _I already love you, Lancelot._

David carefully pushes the door open and enters the rather sombre hospital room. He sees him immediately: not exactly hard to spot, to be fair—the man to whom he dared confess his feelings just a few days ago. The man he never wants to leave ever again.

Eggsy is sleeping. He looks gorgeous and peaceful, but David can tell he isn’t well. 

He hesitates, for a second, wondering whether it wouldn’t be a better idea to let him rest. Then, he remembers the look in Lancelot’s eyes, that moment they shared in the lift a few minutes back, and realises he can’t lose this occasion to talk to Eggsy, because it could well be the last time he gets to do it.

David sits down on the bed next to Eggsy, then, and caresses his stubbly cheek with the pad of his thumb, gently, softly, until Eggsy opens his eyes, blinks a couple of times, and immediately sits up.

Eggsy makes a small noise of what sounds like utter relief as his hands tangle in David’s hair and his lips find David’s own. The kiss isn’t as delicate as David was planning on: it’s deep, and it’s desperate. It’s a thunderstorm of everything they’ve lived through, all the feelings that have grown between them, and that they’ve been forced to put on hold. It’s supercharged, it’s thunder striking: it’s life, and the nagging terror that it will end before they have time to make something out of it. Together. 

After they part, Eggsy looks David deeply in the eyes then smiles lovingly and moves a couple of rebellious curls off of David’s forehead. 

“I love you too,” he says, simply. “I wish I could’ve—”

“Hey,” David interrupts, grabbing one of Eggsy’s hands and squeezing it. “You didn’t need to say anything. I knew.” And it’s true. He did know.

Eggsy’s eyes widen. “Since when?”

David fake-ponders for a second, purely for dramatic purposes: he knows exactly what the answer is.

“Since Rome,” he replies, raising Eggsy’s hand to his lips to plant a soft kiss on the knuckles. Weirdly, that seems to be a trigger for Eggsy’s to flush crimson.

He nods and smiles a little more. “Still, I’m sorry about the other night. Slight malfunction. All better now,” he says, sardonically, tapping on the side of his forehead.

“Tha’s not what I heard,” David replies, concerned but composed. He knows pity, in these cases, won’t do any good. Plus, he’s not _feeling_ any actual pity for Eggsy: he’s simply scared shitless at the thought of losing him. And that’s very different, indeed.

“Oh, pfft, please,” Eggsy waves him off. “I’ll be fine. I just need some of that magic juice we’ve been looking for.” His expression shifts, then, and he looks extremely determined. “David. I want to come with you.”

David shakes his head resolutely. “No fecking way.”

“But three heads are always better than two!” Eggsy protests, visibly frustrated. “I could help out!”

“Not in this state, ye couldn’t,” David replies, as firm as he can, while still trying to maintain a gentle tone. This is the kind of discussion that would have made him lose his temper, a while back. “We have people on our tail. Stewart has taken some out, but we still have to be careful. It’s too dangerous, Eggsy. And you’re too weak.” 

He pauses for a beat, feeling himself well up at the thought of Eggsy having another episode during a gunfight and getting brutally killed. Then, seeing the annoyed look on Eggsy’s face, he realises just how patronising he’s sounding, and he decides to rectify. He takes Eggsy’s face in both hands, and speaks from the heart. 

“I just mean… I’ve got plans. For you, and for me. For us, together. And I can’t lose you now, ye get me?”

Eggsy just looks at him for a few seconds, his eyes big and searching, like he’s trying to read him. Then, David feels him relax under his touch.

“Alright. Alright, fine, yeah. But David, can you promise me something?”

“Aye, love. Anything.”

“Don’t die. And come back to me.”

“I’ll try my best, eh?” David replies, leaning in for another fleeting kiss. “And can you promise me something, too?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Hold on, Eggsy. Hold on, and wait for me.”

*

**_Henfield Storage, South-East London. 10:49 AM._ **

The car park outside the storage facility looks relatively empty. Aside from a couple of windowless (read: shady) but seemingly deserted transporter vans, which David makes a mental note to keep an eye on, there are no potential threats in sight. Plus, he and Lancelot have managed to get on site a full eleven minutes early for their rendezvous with the lab technician. All in all, for the first time in days, David has a good feeling about the outcome of today. He really wants to believe they won’t be going home empty-handed.

Wishful thinking, of course. But there really isn’t a plan B, here: they have to find the darned antidote, or else—

“Penny for your thoughts, Wallace?” Lancelot prompts, after a while spent sitting in the car in complete silence—which, clearly, doesn’t seem to be her style when it comes to stakeouts. “Something wrong?”

David shakes his head and smiles at her. “No, all good. Sorry, got a bit distracted.”

She reaches out to touch his forearm over the gear stick, and gives him a sweet but also unmistakeably concerned look. “I know you’re worried. If it helps, I’m fucking terrified as well. But that’s why I’m here. And that’s why you’re here as well, I presume. Because the stakes, for both of us, are higher than they’ve ever been.”

For a second, sustaining her gaze gets impossible. She’s seeing right through him, voicing exactly how he’s feeling; he has to look down, at an indefinite spot on the bottom part of the wheel in front of him, and breathe deeply, in, then out, before he can look her in the eye again.

“Aye. That’s why we’re here,” he says, covering her hand on his forearm with one of his. 

“We’re going to get this done, and it’s going to be alright,” she affirms, sounding and looking way more confident than David feels. “Lucky for you, you’ve got Kingsman’s best agent with you,” she adds, with a lighthearted smirk and a wink.

David chuckles and nods again. “I’m very lucky, indeed.” Then, just as he’s about to raise the issue of Kingsman needing to decide who the best agent is (since Eggsy’s been proclaiming himself as such for a good four months, now), he notices something moving in the corner of his eye.

He turns his head and, thank God, he sees a slight, female figure slip out from a black car, a few yards from them.

“She’s here,” he says to Lancelot, lowering his voice a tad. “Merlin, we’re going in in two minutes. The rendezvous is in front of her storage unit.”

While Lancelot is busy talking to the handler, David takes a few seconds to make himself presentable. He straightens his tie and suit cuffs, checks his hair in the flip-down mirror, inspects a few gadgets to check that everything is functioning properly, and finally makes sure his gun is charged and ready to go.

When he’s done, he turns to her. “Do I look alright?” he asks, genuinely curious—his hair does seem to be a bit of a mess, and he hasn’t changed his suit in a couple of days.

Lancelot raises an eyebrow, then gives him a half-smirk. “Sorry, love: you’re really not my type.”

*

“243B, is it?” David whispers, as he and Lancelot make their way through the eerily quiet labyrinth of corridors and bright yellow doors.

“Yeah,” Lancelot confirms. “Should be the first one on the right, here.”

As they make a turn into yet another narrow corridor, David’s heart jumps: here she is. Finally. The woman who holds the key to Eggsy’s recovery—and, of course, the advancement of their mission. But David had picked his priorities long ago.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he says, with a confident smile on his face. His and Lancelot’s steps echo in the empty corridor for a few seconds, before they come to a halt in front of the woman. She and David shake hands. “So very nice finally meeting you. We at Sutherland Engineering have heard so much about you in the past couple of weeks. But actually, sorry, where are my manners? My PA, Ms. Bloom,” he says, with a show of hands in Lancelot’s direction.

Lancelot smiles charmingly and shifts the heavy-looking briefcase from her right hand to her left to greet the woman properly. The briefcase is obviously supposed to pose as a cash vehicle for the transaction, but it’s really just a prop (although David is almost sure it’s actually a Kingsman gadget—a shield, maybe? A machine gun? The possibilities really are endless.)

“Pleased to meet you both,” the woman says. “Our mutual contact said you’ve agreed to the sum I’m asking for?”

David grins and nods. “But of course, ma’am. Five hundred upfront, we take a vial home and test it on one of our subjects, and if everything’s in order we’ll wire the other five hundred to your preferred account. Offshore, I presume?”

The woman nods, looking extremely nervous. _Clearly, she’s never done anything like this before._ “Can I see the cash, before I give you the vial?”

“Absolutely,” David says calmly, while looking sideways at Lancelot, who promptly nods back at him. 

_Alright then. It’s showtime._

“You have to come with us right now, ma’am,” Lancelot delivers, deadpan, moving around the woman so she and David are on opposite sides of her. “You’re in grave danger. Your old employer is on your trail.”

“Aye, ma’am,” David confirms, moving closer and checking that Lancelot is doing the same. “We’re here to take you to a safe place.”

The woman looks between them in turn, eyes wide in sudden panic. “What is going on, here?” she asks, audibly frightened. “Are you not here for the antidote?”

“Oh, they _are_ , Ava,” a somewhat familiar posh voice booms, echoing across the empty halls of the storage unit. “But they’re also here because I _wanted them_ to be.”

David sees Lancelot immediately drop the briefcase and cock her gun, as she turns in the direction of the voice. A few seconds later, a man emerges from at the far end of the corridor. He’s dark-haired, short, elegant, and strikingly handsome, clad in a perfect charcoal suit and a light grey trenchcoat. When his eyes meet David’s, the corners of his mouth curve in a devilish grin.

_Fuck._

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Sutherland,” Catesby says, calmly, taking a few steps in the direction of the surprised trio. “Or is it David Budd? One can never be sure with whom one’s doing business, these days,” he ponders out loud, as he clicks his fingers and four giant men in all-black combat uniforms appear behind him. “Dreadful business, with the Home Secretary, wasn’t it? The nation salutes you,” he finishes, with a mock-bow and another click of his fingers.

David barely has time to charge his Glock and briefly consider the implications of what Catesby’s just said before he hears heavy steps and guns cocking behind his back. He turns to see four more hooded men, wielding weapons of different sizes.

 _Shit. They got us. Hook, line and sinker. How the fuck is this even possible?_ David wonders, as he mentally kicks himself for not having suggested a better rendezvous spot than a goddamned labyrinth of narrow corridors. For half a second, he’s so overwhelmed that he doesn’t understand: how could he have been so stupid, so careless, so… But Lancelot wasn’t any better, now, was she? And Merlin, the proverbially fastidious Kingsman handler, hasn’t raised any alarms either. 

And then, he remembers. It’s one of the first teachings he got when he started at Clansman, during his training. _Feelings, Wallace: never let them get in the way of your mission._ They’ve been, all of them, blinded by feelings. Scrambling to save Eggsy, fighting against the clock, not taking the time to think things through properly.

And now they’re going to die. Great. Just _great_.

“You know, Budd,” Catesby starts again, starting to slowly walk towards them. Despite the eight-odd guns pointed at them, David doesn’t lower his weapon. “It’s _such_ a shame things had to go this way. I did have fun with your little friend, in Rome, but…” he pauses, close enough to David now to be able to press his index finger on the barrel of David’s Glock and pressing it down, so it’s out of his own face. “...it’s _you_ I really wanted,” he whispers, visibly making sure that no-one else hears, and simultaneously beckoning one of his goons closer.

David feels a fire instantly roaring within him at the mention of Catesby’s night with Eggsy. _You piece of filth. How bloody dare you even speak his name?_

He wants to strike the man’s smug face. He wants to put him in his place. Heck, he wants to empty his magazine inside his body, fifteen shells to shut him up forever. Unfortunately, he knows he’s going to get shot on sight if he tries anything even remotely violent, so he swallows all his rage and lingering panic and unwillingly puts his gun into the goon’s outstretched hand, under Catesby’s attentive, satisfied gaze.

When David’s disarmed—and Lancelot seems to be too, both her pistol and briefcase confiscated by yet another thug in black—Catesby makes a commanding gesture and a third man approaches, directed towards the lab technician this time, just as the other two block both David and Lancelot’s arms behind their backs. 

Catesby turns to face the technician, and gives her a condescending smile. “My my, Ava, what on _earth_ were you thinking? We were always going to find you, love.”

Ava spits in his face, and her dedicated thug promptly immobilised her. “I don’t care,” she retorts, angrily. “I had to try. I couldn’t stand working for you anymore. You’re filth, all of you. You used us. You made us believe we were saving the world! Fuck you!”

The sardonic smirk on Catesby’s face instantly morphs into utter disgust and contempt. He wipes his cheek, collecting droplets of the woman’s saliva from his skin, then strikes her across the face, hard enough to make her cry out. 

“Are you trying to say you were any better, you slag?” Catesby booms, inching closer to her and caressing her cheek with the back of his hand. “You were trying to sell this cure to the highest bidder. You were looking to make bank off dying men and women. Shame on you.”

David observes the horror on Lancelot’s face as Catesby slaps Ava a few more times, then utters something to the goon and starts to step back.

The man nods, pins Ava to the nearest wall and starts patting her down, visibly looking for something. He fishes a key out of the front pocket of her jacket, then hands it to Catesby.

When David realises what Catesby’s henchmen are about to do, he can't help but try to break free from the goon holding his arms. He knows it's useless but they _can't_ , he can't _let_ them, it’s their only chance to—

But it's too late. All he can do is watch, as they rip apart the contents of the storage unit. Heaps of broken glass, spilled liquids, powders, vials, everything that Ava (or someone working with her) had likely amassed to produce large quantities of antidote, lost forever. 

When they’re done, Catesby utters something else to a goon, and the unfortunate trio end up tied, gagged and sitting on the sticky wet floor of the storage unit, littered with broken glass, with guns pointed at them. _Definitely_ not the end that David had in mind for himself.

Catesby looms over them from the door frame, lit from behind and looking rather ominous.

“Game over, friends. There’s nowhere else to go! Christ, you were a tough one to track down, Ava,” he says, taking a step towards the woman, crouching to be level with her, and patting her cheek. “If it hadn’t been for that poor, desperate man who sold you all out for prenatal treatment for his wife, I don’t know how we’d have done it.”

A glimpse of realisation sparks inside David’s mind, quickly turning to a full picture. _Randolph. It was our fucking pilot. The experimental treatment programme that Hume didn’t know anything about. The failed honeypot. The climate change talk. The ambushes. The Duchess’s people, they were always on our tail, wherever we went. It’s Randolph who must have been feeding them information all this time. Fuck. Fuck. And no-one at Clansman even suspects anything._

“But we got you in the end, haven’t we?” Catesby continues monologuing, unaware of the thunderstorm inside David’s head. “And now, well… Now you’re going to die.” He turns to face David and grins. “Yes, Budd: all of you. Yourself, this weasley little lady, your fine colleague here, and, of course, Mr. Unwin. If he hasn’t already kicked, it, that is,” he muses, chuckling to himself. “If it weren’t for all these pesky explosive charges that we placed all around you—and the entire building, to be sure—I’d ask you to give him my best. But oh, well... pity,” he says, rising to his feet once again and getting back to his position in the door frame. “I suppose this is goodbye, Agents.”

Just as he’s about to close the door, sealing them in a small, dark room surrounded by a plethora of small bombs, David hears a sonorous thud, as one of the thugs falls to the ground behind Catesby. Then, a second one. And then, impossibly, miraculously, as if in slow-motion, David sees a bullet rip through Catesby’s skull, from left to right, and the elegantly-dressed man crumbles limply to the ground next to the other bodies.

Dead, astounded silence reigns for a beat, during which David and Lancelot exchange a shocked look. Then, David hears echoed sounds of footsteps on the rough concrete floor. 

A suited figure stops next to Catesby’s body, and David’s stomach does a somersault. _It can’t be. It can’t._ The man turns the body on its back with a gentle kick of his foot, then utters, “Goodbye, then, John. Pleasure was all yours.” He turns to the inside of the storage unit and steps in, a huge, heart-stopping grin on his tired face. “‘Ello, everyone. Sorry it took me so long.”

“Close the door, there’s more coming!” Lancelot cries, somehow having managed to get rid of her gag.

Eggsy obeys, bolting the door to buy them some time and making a quick work of everyone’s bonds and gags. He helps the women to their feet, then David, who can’t help but linger, while he has Eggsy in his arms once again, against all hope.

“What the hell are ye doin’ here, love?” David asks, barely resisting the urge to kiss him. A deafening sound pierces the air, as one of the goons starts on trying to kick the door down. _Yeah. Really not the time._

“Simple ‘thanks’ will suffice, gorgeous,” Eggsy replies, with a smirk. “You looked like you were in big fuckin’ trouble.”

“Eggs, what the fuck!” Lancelot intercedes, massaging her wrists. “I’d messaged Merlin! He sent Percy and Dagonet to rescue us!”

“They would never have gotten here in time, Rox, we both know it. Look at the timer on those bombs, and look at their ETA. No fuckin’ chance.”

David and Lancelot share a concerned look, that Eggsy absolutely doesn’t miss.

“Seriously, fuck off, both of ya, alright? I’m fine. I’m _great_ , in fact. Let’s take these bastards down and get the hell out of here, eh?”

“Haven’t go’ a gun,” David observes, more to himself than anyone else. “Neither does Lancelot.”

“Yes, she does,” Eggsy says, bending to retrieve something behind him, which turns out to be the mysterious briefcase that Lancelot was carrying around earlier. “Rox, you cover David. David, there’s three dead men out there who were packing loads of iron—I’m sure you’ll be able to take your pick. And ma’am?” he prompts, turning to face Ava. “Please, stay here until we’re done.”

“B-but… The bombs!” she replies, shakily, gesturing around herself.

“Don’ worry, Ava,” David says, touching her shoulder gently. “We’ll get ye out of here safe. Just be a couple of minutes. I’ll keep an eye on the clocks, I promise.”

“Let’s go, boys,” Lancelot says, flicking a couple of switches on her briefcase and turning into—a shield? _Fucking cool._ “Let’s kick some arse.”

Ten seconds later, David is holding a fully loaded SA80 and another goon is dead. He feels like he’s back in the army. It’s kind of absolutely fucking amazing, if he’s honest. 

As it turns out, there are way more men than they’d anticipated. They seem to come out of every corner, every turn, hells, even out of _doors_ , sometimes, like it’s a fucking video game or an elaborate nightmare scenario—but Eggsy and Lancelot, as the forces of nature they obviously are, don’t miss a single shot. Not even bulletproof vests and helmets are a match for the machine gun that’s hidden in the miracle briefcase, taking down goon after goon in a surprisingly seamless fashion.

Until, that is, David’s worst fears really do come true. Until the magic, somehow, starts to fade. Until it turns out that he and everyone else who told Eggsy to stay the _fuck_ in bed were absolutely and completely right.

He sees Eggsy make a faux pas. It’s very clear, and once again it looks like it’s happening in slow-motion: he trips, falls forward, and a bullet flies so close to his face that David has him marked as a goner for three whole seconds. Eggsy breaks his own fall, however, managing to get on his knees and take out two men, one after the other, with two calculated shots between the eyes.

“Sorry, did you have something to say?” he asks David, without turning to face him—but David can _feel_ there’s an insufferable smirk on his face.

And, as a matter of fact, he’s right: David was going to say something. _You’re not well. Get out of here. Get back to Kingsman._

“I guess no-one saw that,” he says instead, walking backwards until their bodies are pressed together, arms outstretched and guns pointed, thinking how they might either look effortlessly cool or completely dumb.

“Oi, Brangelina,” Lancelot cries out, proving the latter point at the opposite end of the corridor, “bit of help here? I think there’s just a couple left,” she says, disappearing again to check into the next alley. “Oh fuck, fuck, boys! Get here, quick!”

The cause of alarm turns out to be a blasted door. While they were busy fighting and Ava was supposed to barricade herself in the unit, one of the thugs seems to have managed to get rid of the obstacle between himself and the woman who has been threatening to undermine the Duchess’s entire operation. 

They find her on the ground, howling in pain, a gash in her abdomen—deep, bloody, inevitable. No sign of the man anywhere, and no time to look for him.

David and Lancelot hurry at her side, clambering to stop the bleeding with anything they can find. Ava whines, cries out “no, no!” as she touches David’s arm and shows him what’s in her hand.

_It’s a dart. They opened her belly, then poisoned her to make sure we couldn’t help her. Not taking any chances, are they?_

Right as he thinks that, David hears a thud behind him, and panic spikes high once again. He daren’t look. He can barely make out Lancelot, on her feet in no time and out of his peripheral, to take care of it.

From the noises she’s making—desperate, terrified—David can tell what just happened. But he can’t, he simply _can’t_ look. He doesn’t need to turn on his special X-ray vision to know that Eggsy’s on the ground, collapsed, immobile. Probably dead. He doesn’t want to turn around. He doesn’t want to look. He’s frozen. One hand covered in warm blood, the other holding the dart, ears ringing with the noise of the ticking clocks, the bombs, the bombs, we need to—

“B-Budd,” Ava whispers, weakly, snapping him out of what felt like a flashback threatening to overwhelm him. “My left boot, please… inside the heel.”

David goes on autopilot. He slides her shoe off, pries the wooden heel open with the pointy end of his _sgian_ , and feels himself die and come back to life a good ten times over when he sees a thin, glass tube and a small metallic rectangle concealed inside.

“That’s the—” she wheezes, coughs out some blood, “the last dose. And the r-recipe is in…”

She doesn’t finish her sentence. Her stare goes really vacuous, eyes glassy and lifeless, and her chest stops heaving.

 _This USB stick contains what we’ve been looking for. Thank you, Ava._ He closes her eyes, clutching the items to his chest. _You rest, now._

“David, help me, please,” Lancelot sobs, distraught. “Eggsy, I think… The bombs, we need…”

“Aye,” David replies, safely storing the vial and the USB stick in his breast pocket, “let’s get out of here.”

He lifts Eggsy up, and Eggsy feels heavy. _Dead weight_ , a terrible voice in his head tells him. One that he hadn’t heard in a long while. _He’s dead. He’s gone._

They’re far from the building, when it explodes—but not far enough. The wave is powerful, it knocks them to the ground and, as expected, almost automatically triggers David’s mind into wandering through his painful, gut-wrenching collection of memories associated with bombs and losing loved ones. 

He sees that woman, Nadia, in the train toilet. He sees the explosives on her. He sees Charlie and Ella, sleeping quietly in their seats, oblivious to anything going on. 

He sees Julia Montague, giving her speech. He sees the blast, taking her life.

He sees himself, in that vest, in the middle of Woburn Square, hopeless and desperate. He sees Vicky. He feels that switch underneath his thumb. Alive and dead. 

His skin is burning. He feels cold.

When he comes to, he doesn’t know how much time has passed. His ears are ringing and his eyes are watering, he’s covered in debris, and his lungs are heavy with the smoke around them. The first thing he clearly makes out is Lancelot, lying on her front, her glasses yards away, knocked out cold.

The second is Eggsy. His eyes are closed, his face is bruised, bleeding from that bullet graze. He’s breathing.

_He’s breathing._

David crawls towards him on his hands and knees, as quickly as he can. He knows what he needs to do. His hands are shaking, but he manages to fish inside his jacket pocket for an emergency syringe, load it with the liquid from the vial, and inject Eggsy with the antidote.

Nothing happens. Eggsy doesn’t open his eyes, he doesn’t inhale dramatically, he doesn’t sit up and says that everything’s fine. Nothing like that. Eggsy just lies there, on the concrete, looking like he’s sleeping deeply and peacefully, but not stirring.

This really isn’t that kind of movie, it seems.

_Let’s just hope it fucking worked._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiiii! Hope you enjoyed this mere tribute to Vaughn's ridiculously cool action scenes. Had to bring back the machine gun/shield briefcase, had to have a silly villain monologue from the insufferable posh boy (RIP John, you'll be ~~sorely missed~~ ), and, of course, had to leave y'all on a wee cliffhanger.  
>  And you know what? I'm not even going to say I'm sorry, this time round.  
>  Because you know what's coming, in two weeks. I told you already. Hope you're ready 🔥  
>  As usual, I have to thank [soft_science](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_science) for holding my hand through the first draft of this whole thing, and M (who will be back in full force starting next chapter, let's give her a big-ass cheer please ❤) for spotting each and every little inconsistency and making this 100 times better.
> 
> Well, then. ~~I~~ WE will see you in two weeks. Be there or be square ;)
> 
> Love,
> 
> C and M xx
> 
> P.S.: Last chapter, you liked the COMINTS kitty. The COMINTS kitty moved your big, squishy hearts, and you left a lot of COMINTS. Will you look at him once again, and do the same this time, too? Reading your reactions made my entire week, for real. ❤❤❤
> 
> If you choose to leave some love (or even just to scream into the void down here, that's good too), thank you in advance, my heart is yours. ❤


	19. XV. Tempestas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he’s stirring in his sheets, pushing through the umpteenth replay of his own death by robot-bug poison, Eggsy notices something unusual. He’s been stuck in a loop for what feels like ten years—bite, illness, death, repeat—but today there is something different. Today, when he dreams of David’s eyes, the last thing he always sees before the darkness finally takes him, those eyes don’t go away. They stay fixed on his, smiling, gentle, blue as the Mediterranean sea and deep as an ocean trench. 
> 
> They tell him: “Come back to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hi! So nice to see you today.
> 
> Here we are, people. The reunion chapter, and the Big One. Not much to say about it, except that we know it's been a long time coming, and we're really, really excited for you to read it. No, seriously, like, stupid excited. It's been a labour of love, and it's the one we've all been looking forward to. And it's finally HERE for you to read.
> 
> We've got some **[sexy music](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/31QEPEyqWrq6QocttW5TDU?si=1rtdvYLhQxGUdM336VHyQQ)** for you to listen to while you go through more than 16k words of this crazy, crazy chapter. We have action, we have conflict, we have angst, and, of course, we have... 🔥🔥🔥
> 
> Happy reading!

_**XV. Tempestas** _

**_Ground zero of Henfield Storage, South-East London. 12:09 PM._ **

_Pop! Pop! Pop!... Snap!... BOOM!_

David’s eyes go wide with shock as he is knocked back to the ground by a shockwave coming from a second blast. He tumbles forward and does his best to cover Eggsy’s body with his own from any flying debris. Thankfully, it seems the explosion is slightly farther away and they are spared from the flaming shrapnel a second time around. 

He looks quickly to his left and notes that Lancelot is still out cold, yet no worse off from the explosion. It appears that Catesby took no chances and rigged the building next door to blow. Just as, what, insurance? _Fucking hell. Talk about thorough._

Ignoring the low, thrumming noise in his ears, he quickly gathers himself off of Eggsy and checks both of the unconscious agents’ vitals once again—half-hoping against hope that his touch alone will rouse Eggsy, but sparing no time for extra sentimentality. While his ears are still intermittently ringing, he’s almost certain he can hear the wail of approaching sirens: there’s no time. _We need to get out of here. Now_. 

He crouches over Lancelot and he fumbles in the pocket of his now singed waistcoat, pulling out his pocket watch, fiddling with the dials, and pressing buttons in a seemingly random sequence. _Hopefully I remember the bloody pattern for the smelling salts. Probably best not to get us all coked up in a crisis situation where the coppers are nearly here_ , he thinks grimly to himself, while grinning slightly maniacally. _Not sure how I could talk my way out of that one._

David finally pops the watch open and is comforted by the stench rising from the device in his palm. _Bingo. Smells like absolute shite, but will all but raise the dead._

“Here we go Lancelot. Upsy-daisy. No use sleeping the day away,” he murmurs under his breath, as he waves the watch under her nose, watching with absolute satisfaction as her eyes flutter open and she sputters and coughs, gasping for air as she turns onto her side. 

“Fuck you, Wallace. That smells bloody awful! You couldn’t have tried, you know, pinching my earlobe or something?” she spits out, without any venom, as she continues to cough. 

“No time for that, love. Can ye hear the sirens? We’ve got tae get out of here.”

Lancelot rattles in a breath and tries to still her chest, so that she can hear over the sound of her own mangled respirations. She notes the noise and nods perfunctorily. “We’ve enough time then. Our backup should be here any moment now.”

 _Fuck. Shit._ David thinks to himself desperately as he tries to gather Eggsy gingerly in his arms. _I’d completely forgotten that there were more Kingsman agents coming. I’ve got to get us out of here. I’m not safe. Eggsy isn’t safe. None of us are safe._

Lancelot must see the panic in his eyes, because she plants herself in front of him and glares at him. “What’s going on, Wallace? What’s got you in such a panic? I thought you’d be pleased we’re actually getting help. We’re in no shape to be getting far on our own. Plus—” her eyes dart to the figure in his arms “—Eggsy needs medical attention as soon as possible.”

David hesitates. He blinks, swallows once, pondering whether it’s a good idea to tell her. After a few seconds, he thinks of how much she seems to care about Eggsy, and he concludes he can. 

“There’s been a security breach in Clansman, and I’m no’ sure how far it goes. But I’m certain it’s how we ended up where we are. It’s how they knew exactly where to find us. We were _set up_ ,” David says fiercely, before trailing off for a moment. “I’m certainly not safe and neither is Eggsy, especially now.” He looks down at the man in his arms, eyes tender for a moment, before he hardens his gaze once more. “How much do ye trust these people? Merlin? Arthur? I can’t be certain of anyone right now—not until I know how deep this goes.”

She looks him straight in the eye, before flicking her gaze down to her glasses on the ground a few metres away, and then back up to meet his eyes head-on. “I trust them. I would trust Merlin— _and_ Arthur, with my life. But I get that you might not. I do. I will let you go now, if you feel it’s better for you.” She pauses and presses her lips tightly together. “But you have to leave Eggsy with me. He won’t make it... on the run with you.”

David hears what she won’t say out loud. _There’s no way to know if he’s going to make it at all._

“Plus,” she says, quirking her eyebrow sardonically, “if you try to run with him, Merlin _will_ hunt you down and kill you. Especially since I’m positive Eggsy broke out of Medical to get here. Those agents will have direct orders to bring him home.”

“That we do, Lancelot,” a voice confirms from over David’s left shoulder. He spins around, whacking Roxy with Eggsy’s limp feet in his hurry.

“Wallace!” she exclaims rubbing the side of her face where he just clobbered her with Eggsy’s lethal Oxford-clad feet. 

“Apologies, Lancelot,” he says, almost absently, not taking his eyes off of the two approaching men and the chopper a ways off behind them. _How on earth did I miss that?_ It must have been disguised under the hearing damage from the blasts. _Dammit._

The taller and slighter of the two men continues to approach David, arms outstretched as if to relieve him of the man in his arms. David instinctively takes a step back.

“It’s alright, Percy,” Lancelot says in a soothing tone, which David suspects is more for him than for the thin, dark-haired man who as a result drops his arms. “Wallace will carry Galahad to the helicopter without any fuss— _won’t you_ , Wallace?”

David rolls his eyes at the implication. A bit late for him to make a run for it now, unless he feels like getting shot in the back. Which he really, really doesn’t.

“Right, then,” Percival says, sharply cutting off David’s meandering thoughts. “Let’s get a move on. I want to take a look at Galahad once we get him inside.” He doesn’t wait for a reply, turning on his heel and quickly making his way to the helicopter and the other man standing next to it. “Dagonet, are we cleared to go?” he asks, in direction of the second agent.

“Ready when you are, Percival,” Dagonet confirms, beckoning David and Lancelot towards the aircraft. Lancelot pauses for a moment to bend and gather her slightly mangled glasses from the ground, before jogging over to her fellow agents and clambering into the cabin.

“ _Today_ would be ideal Wallace,” she yells over the low thump of the helicopter’s blades displacing the air. _Nice that I can finally hear that again—mostly_ , David thinks to himself as he readjusts Eggsy in his arms and strides over to the aircraft. _I suppose, at this point, I don’t have any choice but to trust Kingsman. Hopefully it doesn’t get us both killed._ He looks down at Eggsy’s pale, still face. _I only hope it’s not too late for him._

He gets to the door, and hands Eggsy over gently, to be laid down on the prepared gurney. 

_There’s nothing left to do but hope._

*

**_Kingsman HQ medical ward. Later that afternoon._ **

As soon as they touch down at the mansion, there is a team of nurses and doctors waiting to rush them to Medical—six of them expertly taking charge of Eggsy’s gurney and the panoply of medical equipment that Percival spent the hour-long flight getting Eggsy hooked into, and which David couldn’t make heads nor tails of. Percival, obviously a trained medic himself, casually batted David’s hands away whenever he tried to help, causing Lancelot, who had safely tucked herself away out of reach—with good reason it seems—to grin smugly at him. 

David shakes himself and tries in vain to quell the rising tide of panic bubbling in his chest. He’s always known that there would be no guarantee the antidote would cure Eggsy. He had hoped, though. _God,_ had he hoped. But they cut it _so close_ , it’s impossible to predict what will happen. His only comfort in this particular moment is that Eggsy is still alive—if barely. He grudgingly lets himself be led away from the doors that Eggsy’s gurney has just been rushed through. Lancelot’s hand is warm and comforting on his elbow, as they are beckoned toward a team of mousy yet competent-looking nurses. 

They both get quickly and efficiently stripped, scanned and examined from head to toe, categorising and itemising injuries from the smallest scratch to a sluggishly bleeding head wound. Hearing checked, eyesight verified. Truly no stone left unturned. 

“Do they do this for every agent coming back from the field?” David muses quietly to himself.

“Yes, Agent Wallace, sir,” the woman checking his lymph nodes chirps happily. “Every time, and they all complain about it vehemently—but Arthur and Merlin insist.”

“It wasn’t always like this,” Lancelot calls out from the next bed. “Time was, unless you were really injured on a mission, you could patch yourself up and be mission-ready again in 24 hours.”

“But you wouldn’t imagine what kind of stuff the agents try to brush off as being ‘nothing but a flesh wound’, if you get my meaning,” the nurse treating David murmurs under her breath, with a chuckle. “Some of them in particular have been quite resistant to getting treatment, even under extreme circumstances.” She flicks her eyes playfully to the curtain between them and Lancelot. 

“I _can_ hear you, you know,” Lancelot sniffs, feigning affront. “And _I_ certainly was never the worst offender. If you really want to point fingers, you should really point them at your boyfriend, Wallace. And Arthur,” she allows. 

David looks up to meet his nurse’s gaze, and notes her conspiratorial wink. “I wouldn’t be so sure, Lancelot. Who was it, now, who decided a broken ankle wasn’t worth getting treated for three whole weeks?”

The radio silence stretching between them after that comment is answer enough. David and his nurse break out into chuckles. 

“I’m Melody, by the way,” she introduces herself. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Agent Wallace. Agent Galahad has nothing but the best things to say about you—and let me tell you, he talks about you _a lot_ ,” she adds, as she efficiently cleans and stitches up a cut over David’s left eyebrow. “There y’are, good as new.” She pats his arm soothingly before leaning close to whisper reassuringly in his ear. “Galahad’s a strong one, Wallace. If anyone can pull through all this, it’s him. Don’t you worry yourself too much.” 

David’s smile is crooked and slightly uncertain. “I appreciate—”

He’s interrupted by the doors to Medical suddenly bursting inwards to admit two very familiar figures. 

Arthur leads the way, making a beeline for the room that Eggsy’s gurney disappeared into minutes ago. However, before he can make his way through the door, he’s stopped by Merlin’s firm grip on his arm. 

“Harry, please. There is nothing you can do for the lad in there. The medical team are doing everything they can, and we will see him as soon as it’s safe for him,” Merlin cautions under his breath, doing his best to not let his voice carry through the suddenly very still room.

Arthur shakes his arm out of Merlin’s grip, a glacial, resolute look in his eyes. “I am Arthur, aren’t I? I have every right to see to the well-being of my agents,” he says, matter-of-factly. “What was he even _doing_ out of HQ?” his voice snaps out like a whip. “He was supposed to be safe in here, not risk getting blown up while he’s already dying from a neurotoxin!” 

“Harry, you know as well as I do that being Arthur does not allow you free-reign to do as you please and interfere with medical personnel,” Merlin bites back mercilessly. “And if you expected Galahad to stay here without direct supervision while Wallace and Lancelot were out in a potentially dangerous situation, you should have been here yourself ensuring it. If you believed he would stay here like a good boy, you don’t know him as well as you think you do.” 

Arthur looks chagrined for a split-second, before he notices David, Lancelot, and the two nurses on the other side of the room, and his face goes blank. 

“I do apologise. I hadn’t realised that you were all still here.” He draws a few steps closer to them and looks towards the nurses. “Are there any major injuries to be reported for Lancelot and Wallace?”

“No, sir,” they chorus, before Lancelot’s nurse continues. “Lancelot sustained a minor concussion in the initial blast, but given rest should make a full recovery. Other than that, she only has cuts and bruises.”

“Thank you, Letty,” Arthur says, giving the woman a kind smile before turning to Melody, “and what about Agent Wallace, my dear?” 

“Just cuts and bruises so far, sir. Wallace has had to have a couple deeper wounds stitched up, and I have some concerns about his hearing. He seems to have sustained some moderate hearing damage as a result of the blast. It’s likely only temporary, but I would like to monitor it.”

“Very good. Do they need to stay here, or can they recuperate in their quarters?”

_Talk about us as if we weren’t here, why don’t you. Prick._

Swallowing his bitterness, David politely clears his throat to interject. “I’d like tae stay here and wait for Galahad, sir. If I may.”

Arthur’s face sours minutely. “You both should get some rest. You will do him nor yourself any good by exhausting yourself, while he isn’t even here for you to fret over. I will be sure to inform you as soon as Galahad is up to receiving visitors.”

David quirks an incredulous eyebrow at the words coming out of Arthur’s mouth. It all sounds a bit rich, judging from the exchange he’s just overheard. “I could say the same for _you_ ,” he mutters under his breath, flicking his eyes up to meet Merlin’s knowing gaze and causing Melody, the only one to hear him, to nudge him gently in the ribs in a kind rebuke. 

“See that Wallace is shown to quarters,” Arthur continues, ignoring the interplay. “Lancelot, you know protocol, see that it’s followed.” He then turns on his heel and strides out of the room as quickly as had entered, leaving Merlin behind, tapping idly at his ever-present clipboard. 

_Do as I say, not as I do, I suppose?_ David thinks to himself wryly, staring at the still gently swinging doors.

“He _is_ right, in this case at least,” Merlin concedes, visibly pulling himself out of his thoughts. “There is nothing you can do for Eggsy here that can’t be done from the comfort of an actual room—and you might have a chance of actually getting some rest while you wait.” His tapping intensifies slightly. “I have just set up an alert protocol to signal you in your room as soon as anything about his status changes.”

It’s a clear dismissal of the issue, and it’s just completely solidified the fact that Merlin will not be allowing him to stay where he is, unless it becomes medically necessary for him to do so. He will likely even stand there to ensure his orders are followed. 

“Very well,” David allows. “I suppose—if my work-up is done, then I’m free to go?” He looks to Melody, who gives him a smile and a nod. “In that case, is there anyone who can show me to my room?”

*

Late the following day, after a restless night and countless hours pacing the length and breadth of his suite, David is finally alerted to the fact that Eggsy is stable and, while not conscious, has been cleared to receive visitors. 

He immediately hurries back to the medical ward, only to be stopped short as its doors open, realising that he’s almost run squarely into the chest of one Harry Hart. _Fuck_. _Can’t catch a break, now, can I?_ And abso- _fucking_ -lutely figures that _Arthur_ would be the first in to see Eggsy. 

“Ah, Agent Wallace. I had hoped I would find you here,” Arthur says mildly, attempting to lead him away from the doors. David stands his ground, unwilling to be detained longer than necessary before getting through those doors to finally see Eggsy with his own eyes. “A moment of your time, please, and I’ll let you be on your way.”

“Is there any reason why we can’t do this in there?” David queries, raising an eyebrow and eyeing the doors. “From what I was told, it’s not as if Eggsy is going to be disturbed while he’s still _unconscious_.” 

“I just felt this would be an easier conversation to have away from... certain distractions,” Arthur replies, his serious face not betraying any kind of emotion.

David digs in his heels, both metaphorically and literally—completely unwilling to be pushed around by Eggsy’s former lover. _And boss_ , he reminds himself. _Bloody hell. As if our lives weren’t complicated enough_. 

“You wanted to talk, so talk.”

Arthur looks uneasy, eyes darting once before settling. “I would feel much better if we discussed this in my office, or perhaps somewhere else a bit more private.”

David narrows his eyes. _What the hell is with this guy? Of course he wants me somewhere that he considers his territory, but for fuck’s sake, he’s the leader of this organisation, this entire place is his fucking territory. What kind of power trip is this?_

“Arthur, I would request that ye get to the fucking point _quickly,_ so that I can get in there. I would rather _not_ go to your office, but if ye insist...” 

“No, not at all. However, this is somewhat of a delicate subject, and I only wanted to make sure you were comfortable—”

“I will be most comfortable once I have been able to see Agent Galahad and ascertain for myself that he is well,” David cuts him off, briskly. “Or as well as can be expected, given the circumstances.”

“Until we have had this conversation, I’m afraid you are not cleared to see Agent Galahad.”

“Let’s get this done then,” he snaps back, impatiently. “What is this all about?”

“Let’s start with you,” Arthur replies, infuriatingly placid and patronising. “Is there anything you need to tell me?”

David scowls internally. He hates mind games even more than power plays. He’s pretty sure he can guess what this is all about, but he’s unwilling to give the man the satisfaction. 

“Arthur,” he says, firmly. “Respectfully, just ask me the question ye’re clearly so desperate tae ask.”

“Alright then, Agent,” Arthur begrudgingly concedes. “During your last mission to retrieve the antidote, we became aware of a potential security breach in either Clansman or Kingsman, which was revealed to us by the now deceased John Catesby. Now. Given the look on your face from the footage we’ve retrieved via Lancelot’s glasses’ feed, I would say you might know rather more than you’re letting on. So let’s not waste any more time, shall we? Out. With. It,” Arthur says, forcefully.

David is about to reply, when a booming voice interrupts his train of thought.

“Arthur! What in God’s name are ye doin’? Interrogating an agent in the halls outside of Medical,” Merlin interrupts, striding down towards them, his reprimanding tone echoing across the large empty corridor. “You know better than this!”

“I did propose doing this in a private location, but Agent Wallace here was immovable,” Arthur says, defensively. 

“You’re the head of an intelligence organisation, Harry. I’m sure ye can be more discreet than the middle of the hallway!”

Arthur’s gaze goes very hard as it flickers between David and Merlin. Then, visibly trying to look unfazed, he straightens his shirt cuffs and crosses his arms.

“I’m making do, Merlin. Agent Wallace has proven himself truly uncooperative, and he seems to be avoiding the subject. I believe that, until he’s ready to tell us everything he knows about this leak, he should be held in a secure location.”

David’s eyes widen incredulously. “Ye’re holding me prisoner?” he exclaims, outraged. “What about yer damn inter-agency cooperation?”

He can see Merlin opening his mouth to reply, but Arthur is quicker.

“Well, Wallace. Since there’s a potential mole running around, and it’s looking more and more like it could be you, we have to take every precaution—and that includes keeping you away from Agent Galahad. He has no way to protect himself from you at present, and we will not be putting him at risk.”

“Harry, I don’t think—” Merlin tries, but David isn’t having any of it.

“What the fuck are ye even on about! How could it be _me_ —I went in there, almost got blown up for my troubles,” he shouts, patience lost completely. “And frankly, Eggsy’s at bloody risk just by being here!” 

Merlin looks David square in the eye. “Is he, now? Well then it certainly does sound like you’ve got something to share with the class. Both of you, inside this meeting room, now,” he says, with a show of one hand towards a half-open door a few feet away, “so we can avoid any more histrionics and get this sorted once and for all.” 

David throws a sideways glance at Arthur, who for a second looks like he’s going to go off on another rant about what ‘being Arthur’ entitles him to, but ultimately nods and starts moving towards the meeting room. Therefore, David feels like he should also acquiesce to Merlin’s demand, following in Arthur’s wake and mulling the weird exchange over in his mind. 

Obviously, there is no chance for him to go and see Eggsy before this has been sorted. And maybe it’s for the best, really: if he can convince Merlin and Arthur that he and Eggsy aren’t safe, even here, he will be able to get them to agree to relocating both of them out of Kingsman, in some safe house, somewhere far and away from the rest of the world until Eggsy recovers. _If_ he recovers. That, as far-fetched as it sounds, is David’s only solution to take care of his number one priority: keeping Eggsy safe.

*

Merlin firmly shuts the door behind them, scowling at both David and Arthur until they take seats at the small table in the middle of the room. 

“Right. Now,” he begins, in a business-like tone. “Wallace, you may speak. Please tell us what you know about the “pilot” that Catesby was talking about, everything you know or suspect—and Harry here will keep his opinions to himself until you’re done. Won’t you, Harry?”

 _God, he sounds like a primary school teacher rebuking a pair of naughty children who just got into a fistfight._ The expression on Arthur’s face is _priceless_.

“I would advise you not to push it, Merlin,” he replies, sternly, before turning in his seat to look at David. “Please, Agent Wallace, enlighten us,” he says, condescendingly. 

David smirks, his blood a 50/50 concentrate of sheer amusement and rage.

“Alright then. I’m not sure how much I even can tell ye, because even I don’t fully know what’s going on. Hume would be yer best bet for more information, but I’m sure he has his hands full right now, figuring out how much was actually lost. Anyways. I’m almost positive that the individual Catesby mentioned is Randolph McCleod, one of Clansman’s top pilots. It sounds to me like the Duchess of Somerset, or someone in her organisation, found him through an online forum where he was looking for alternative medical therapies for his wife. You can check that, by the way: Hume and pretty much everyone else at Clansman were aware of his family situation. I’m no’ sure how the Duchess’s people figured out Randolph worked for us, or how he managed tae hide the fact that he was colluding with the enemy, but the man is the obvious source of the leak.” 

The words tumble out of David’s mouth, and once again, he wishes that the Clansman network wasn’t a secret. He wishes he could tell Merlin about it too, because it adds another layer to why this is such a tragedy. Clansman’s fucking failsafe has proven to be not-so-safe after all, and they don’t even know how much information was bloody leaked or if it’s even safe for him to communicate with them. At the same time, he has _no_ desire whatsoever for _Arthur_ to have any additional ammunition against him: the situation is bad enough as it is. 

“I don’ know how much they know about Clansman, or if they know anything at all about Kingsman. But I would imagine they know _something_ —these people are too smart tae take these secret organisations at face-value, especially after meeting us. And they obviously know exactly who _I_ am, even though Clansman has gone to a great deal of trouble to hide my true identity.”

“So, you don’t have any idea if they’re after any specific information, or who they’re targeting?” Merlin asks, raising an inquiring eyebrow. “You were quite concerned for Galahad’s well-being not ten minutes ago. What makes you believe he isn’t safe here?”

“I don’ know,” David replies, defeated. “I only know that they definitely want both of us dead—John Catesby himself was abundantly clear on that point. And well, even though he’s quite dead himself, his associates are aware of both our true identities. We didn’t even try to hide Galahad’s on that last mission,” he finishes, perfectly aware of how broken he sounds.

Merlin scratches his chin and slowly paces in front of David and Arthur, seemingly considering what David’s just said.

“Right. Well, given the source of the leak, I would be surprised if they didn’t know everything there is to know about you,” Merlin concedes, sharing a heavy look with Arthur. “And yes, if what you say is true—”

“Which it _is_ ,” David nonchalantly interrupts, “and you can easily check that.”

“If you would let me _finish_ , Wallace,” Merlin replies, his flaming gaze burning a hole through David. “I was going to say: if what you say is true, it is very likely that neither you nor Galahad are as safe as we would like you to be. Even here at HQ. Particularly as Galahad is in such a vulnerable state, we need to consider moving him to a more secure location immediately. 

“If I may speak, Merlin,” Harry cuts in. “I believe this is more of a conversation to be had between the two of us to make plans for our agent. Agent Wallace here should liaise with Clansman for the best course of action for him.”

David’s eyebrows furrow. He does _not_ like the sound of where this is going. “I am not gunnae let you make decisions about Galahad that don’t include me. Whatever is safe enough for him will certainly be safe enough for me, too. I daren’t contact Clansman over secure channels until I know that it’s actually secure. So, well, I guess ye’re stuck with me,” he says, with a small, sardonic smile directed at Arthur.

“And what exactly gives you the idea that you might have the right to be making demands, especially when it comes to Agent Galahad?” Arthur snaps back sharply, visibly enraged. 

Although it feels like a dagger to the heart, that comment stops him short. What right indeed does David have—other than the fact that he and Eggsy love each other? They have no papers to prove it, they barely are even _together_ , for fuck’s sake. 

“I know I have no right to make demands of you, or of anything to do with Agent Galahad,” he replies, as meekly as he can muster. “I can only beg that you find somewhere secure for him—ideally, for us both, so that I can protect him. That is my only request. Keep him safe.” 

“Harry, that’s enough,” Merlin says, cutting Arthur off before he can open his mouth to protest again. “It is a fair request, and Agent Wallace is a valuable asset to protect Galahad.”

Arthur holds his hands up in surrender, and his expression goes strangely blank. “Very well, Merlin. I bow to your superior expertise in such situations. However—might I suggest Seven Sisters for Galahad, while he recuperates?” 

His face is far too innocent. _This must mean something. This can’t be good._ A quick look at Merlin confirms David’s fears: his face is positively stormy. 

“You do now, do ye? Safest under yer own roof, hm?” Merlin’s voice is beyond dry as he stills for a long moment, looking Arthur square in the eye. Finally, he breaks eye contact and rolls his eyes. “Very well. I guess it _is_ a viable safe house, and not one that is kept in any of our logs to be susceptible to infiltration or leaks. _But_ Agent Wallace will go with him... and no, I don’ want to hear anything about it,” he adds, holding up a hand to quell the protest he knows is coming from Arthur. “Galahad will need protection until he is strong enough to take care of himself. You are not sufficient to this task Harry, and you well know it. It is way too conspicuous for the head of Kingsman to disappear for as long as it might take for Galahad to recover.”

David smirks triumphantly for a second, but almost immediately catches himself: taking Eggsy to live with _Arthur_ , of all people? Pretty much the last person that either of them wanted to be forced closer to, but it seems they have no other option.

“Well, then. Now that we’re all sorted, I would like to sit with Agent Galahad until we have to leave, if ye don’ mind,” David announces, pushing his chair back with a loud squeal, and rejoicing in the grimace on Arthur’s face as he stands. He turns and starts to make his way towards the door, then stops, reaching into his pocket as he turns back to the two men still at the table. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he says coolly. “You’ll be wanting this, I expect.” He tosses Ava’s USB key onto the table in front of Merlin. “Keep me updated on any progress. I want to nail these guys to the wall.”

With that, he turns on his heel and walks out the door, not even sparing a glance behind him. Eggsy, the only thing on his mind.

*

**_Seven Sisters safehouse, Cuckmere Haven, Seaford. Day 1. 10:54 AM_ **

The hour-long, circuitous drive to the safehouse takes place in stony silence in the back of a Kingsman cab. A self-driving cab. _Seriously? Their own fucking autonomous cab service? So much for this address not being in any systems._

David shakes his head internally at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. At least, he supposes, it is painfully obvious that Arthur is no happier to have David with him than David is to be there—which brings David a certain (potentially a bit sadistic) sense of satisfaction. On the other hand, it also makes him wonder what’s it going to be like to share a house with the man, if the situation is already this tense after one hour.

Due to his condition, Eggsy is being moved by medical transport with his personal nurse—in what David hopes is the least conspicuous way possible. But as a result, neither he nor Arthur were allowed to accompany him, leading them to this incredibly uncomfortable scenario. Beautiful scenery, _dreadful_ company. _Merlin must be laughing his arse off back at HQ._

Surprisingly, it is Arthur who breaks the silence first. 

“We should be arriving momentarily. And if you’re concerned about the cab knowing the location of the safe house—don’t be. This is my personal vehicle, and it isn’t on Kingsman’s network. I programme in the destination before departure and it is automatically wiped as soon as I exit the cab.”

David heaves an internal sigh of relief. “And Eggsy’s transport?” he queries, hoping Arthur might provide some reassurance about that, too. _Better than sitting in stony silence, at least._

“Merlin himself will be piloting the vehicle. The only other person on board is his nurse, Jane, who lives about half a mile away and will be in and out of the cottage throughout Eggsy’s recovery to monitor him,” Arthur replies in a bored tone, once more leafing through the papers stuffed into the briefcase at his feet. “Everything has been taken care of, Eggsy is as secure as I—as _we_ can make him.”

David ignores Arthur’s slip of the tongue. It is more than apparent that the man thinks very little of him, especially when it comes to any sort of a personal relationship between him and Eggsy. _Best to just let sleeping dogs lie, for the moment at least._

They pull up outside of a stone cottage with wisteria growing across the face of it and a low stone wall ringing the garden. _How quaint_ , David thinks to himself, as he and Arthur unfold themselves from the back seat of the cab. Once out of the car, he takes another look at the small house, which looks like it could be straight out of an old movie, then proceeds to grab his case from the boot. _Wouldn’t have taken Arthur for the sentimental type. This is proper Jane Austen shite._

David slowly gathers himself, clearly not eager to spend any more time than necessary one on one with the other man. By the time he looks up from his inspection of the surroundings and picks up his leather satchel and case, he notes that Arthur has already disappeared through the wooden door, leaving him in the dust of the cab that just pulled away as quietly as it arrived. _Don’t wait for me, by any means_ , he thinks, discreetly shaking his head in mild disbelief and walking towards the entrance. 

When he gets through the door, Arthur is fully ensconced in a task, bustling about the cottage with linens and other items. He acknowledges David with a nod and says, “I will be right with you to show you around, Agent Wallace. I am just getting a few items ready in Eggsy’s room.”

After a couple of minutes spent looking at the incalculable amount of family heirlooms resting on shelves and tables, and framed butterflies hung on the walls, David hears Arthur make his way back downstairs, and sees him approach the living room. 

“All done. Again, my apologies, Wallace. I was just getting a few things in order to get it ready for guests.”

_In other words, ‘organising it so that Eggsy is welcomed with open arms and to make the least comfortable possible’, I’ll wager._

“It’s fine, sir. I was admiring the scenery and getting my bearings. This is a lovely home,” he replies, finding that he really means it. This house really is an Old-English dream.

“Yes, well. Following the incident with the Golden Circle, during which our agents’ homes were all blown off the map, there were some— _contingency measures_ put into place, particularly for Arthur. That is when I acquired this place. As you’ll see, the building is quite secure; some of these measures are obvious and some are quite unobtrusive, unless you run afoul of them.”

 _Noted_ , David thinks to himself wryly. _Best watch my step then—literally._

Arthur continues his monologue, motioning for David to follow him. “It is a relatively small cottage, only two bedrooms—mine, of course and... well, I had set the second one up for Eggsy, seeing as he will be spending a good deal of time in there.” He pauses for a brief moment and their eyes meet. “There is also a settee in the lounge that is quite comfortable. I’m assuming that, as an agent, you’ve probably had to sleep in your fair share of less-than-desirable situations—so I’m sure you’ll be able to make do.”

_Of course you’re not even giving me a bed. Of fecking course._

“It will be well enough, sir,” he replies, in a dismissive tone. “I plan to spend most of my time by Eggsy’s side, anyways, so I doubt it will see much use. And as you said, sir, I’m well used to working with little. A hard chair by his bedside is better than any down mattress—or it will be, at least until I know that he’s finally fully recovered.”

Arthur’s face visibly sours, and then seems to flit through a myriad of emotions. _Seems that wasn’t the answer he was looking for, now was it?_ David smirks internally but braces himself for the blowback. _Seems my ‘solution’ is not going to sit well with him at all._

“Both you and Eggsy need rest, and sitting constantly by his bedside will do neither of you any good. Plus, his nurse will likely be in and out during the night to monitor him. I’m sure _everyone_ will be more comfortable if you take the lounge and aren’t popping out of the woodwork to scare the daylights out of everyone in the middle of the night.”

David has to literally bite back a guffaw. _That isn’t even an excuse. He’s completely grasping at straws._

“While I ask that you not get underfoot with the medical staff, you are still free to move about the house while you’re here. The only room I would ask that you not enter would be mine. Otherwise,” Arthur’s face twitches again, “make yourself at home.”

“Absolutely, sir,” David replies, in a mock-reverential tone. A second later, he finds that he can’t hold back a quip that he knows will bite him in the arse. “Might I ask, however—what are ye hiding in there? A picture of Eggsy in a heart frame next to yer bed that ye don’ want me seeing, or something?” 

Arthur’s face goes positively stony. “You might _not_ ask, Wallace. My business is my business. I really shouldn’t have to remind you that, as the head of an intelligence organisation and one of your direct superiors in this mission, I am well entitled to my privacy, and I expect that to be followed without question.”

 _Direct superior? This has never been a jointly-run operation, but whatever._ He doesn’t say that out loud, however: this entire discussion is exhausting enough as it is—no need to get into Clansman-Kingsman politics, as well.

He changes the subject, to distract from the mounting tension between the two of them, before he’s effectively ejected from the building. “It’s fine. The lounge, I mean. I promise to sleep there and not be underfoot.” 

Arthur gives him a tight nod, and David can tell that a truce of sorts has been unofficially declared. A few seconds later, they both breathe a sigh of relief when they hear knock on the front door— _Eggsy._ David immediately realises the implication and walks quickly toward the sound, realising that Arthur has made the exact same move, lengthening his stride to reach the door first.

David does his best to settle himself with a deep breath. _Best figure out quick how to live with the man, we’re going to be stuck in this shoebox together for a yet undetermined amount of time. And if there is one thing we’ve all got in spades right now, it’s time. And seeing as I want to figure out what Arthur is hiding in his room. It must be about Eggsy, it seems everything about this man is fixated on him. And can I blame him?_ He muses to himself. His breath catches in his chest as he sees Eggsy being wheeled into the house, even in sleep, his chiseled jaw and sharp nose affecting him in a way he can barely describe. _We have time. Eggsy is here, and we are still together, even if Harry fucking Hart has parked himself squarely in the middle of everything._

Now, if only Eggsy would open his eyes.

*

**_Seven Sisters safehouse, Day 4. 3:47 PM_ **

David breathes hard, doing his best yet again to rein in his temper. It flares hot and bright under his skin as he tries to ignore yet another ‘accident’ that isn’t much of an accident at all. 

As he had guessed right from the beginning, he and Arthur have been at odds every second of every day spent in the cottage, constantly battling each other for the right to be by Eggsy’s side and inadvertently (mostly David, by virtue of not knowing Arthur’s routines and particularities, of which there appear to be _far too many_ ), or purposefully (mainly Arthur, seemingly trying to sabotage him at every turn). It has been days of “accidentally” emptied coffees minutes after having been poured, dairy-free milk mysteriously being swapped for regular, full-fat cow milk, hot water being cut off halfway through a shower—the list of inconveniences and spiteful gestures is endless. 

Each action on either of their parts is designed to annoy the other man as much as possible, a debatably self-destructive behaviour to carry while in the unfortunate reality of living almost in each other’s pockets. The safehouse, clearly not built for its current number of residents—particularly with the added burden of the terrible dynamic between the master of the house and his, what, _ex-lover? Protégé? Employee?_ ’s new partner.

David feels like a burden in all senses of the word. The animosity between them continues to escalate with no obvious end in sight, and he has had quite _enough_. 

It’s hard to live like this. Being such an obvious nuisance to Arthur’s everyday business about the cottage, and the constant rejection and animosity coming from him. But it’s also difficult, because David knows, deep down, that Arthur’s belligerent attitude towards him stems entirely from a desire to protect Eggsy, and possibly a hidden hope that maybe, if he plays his cards right and comes out of this fucking disaster of a situation looking like his saviour yet again, that Eggsy might come back to him. And sometimes, at night, David still rather foolishly wonders whether there might indeed be a chance that Eggsy could want to do just that, after this is all over. He lets the thought keep him awake for hours and hours. He lets it set him on fire with rage and pain. He lets it consume him. But then, even when he’s talked himself into hopelessness, he remembers. He remembers what they said to each other. He remembers that Eggsy is wise, self-aware, and wonderful. He remembers hearing the words _Harry is a complicated man, and I think I’m done with complicated men_ , coming from him directly, on that sunny day back in Rome. He remembers that Eggsy loves him.

Plus, he reasons with himself once a new day starts and he inevitably meets Arthur in the kitchen, steely gaze down at him from over his copy of the _Times_ and that ever-present giant stick up his arse—why anyone sane would want to get back on _that_ fucking masochistic rollercoaster, he really has no fucking clue. 

This afternoon, the latter argument sounds particularly spot-on. 

They let Jane in fifteen-odd minutes ago; she’s a nice middle-aged woman with bright ginger hair and a strong Geordie accent who looks to be absolutely fond of Eggsy and deeply hopeful about his recovery, and David loves her. It’s always a breath of fresh air, that hour she spends in the cottage. He gets to hear a voice that isn’t Arthur’s. He gets to crack jokes and charm her a bit. He gets positive energy, for a wee while.

Today, Arthur seems to have decided to take that away from him, too. Jane just suggested that, since Eggsy is probably going to wake up soon, it would be appropriate to start doing some gentle physical therapy with him: everything works absolutely fine, of course, it’d be just a question of stretching his muscles and moving his joints, so he’s not completely atrophied once he does wake up. David, of course, immediately volunteered for the task. And Arthur, _of course_ , immediately proceeded to unceremoniously step all over him.

“With respect, Wallace, _I_ should be the one to do it. I’ve had this kind of therapy countless times, I know exactly what needs to be done,” he says, patronisingly, before turning to face the nurse, who now looks like she regrets ever bringing the subject up. “No problem. I’ll take care of it, Jane.”

“Sir,” David protests, trying not to let his bitterness show too much. “You can’t possibly assume ye’re the only one here who’s ever had rehabilitative therapy. _I’ll_ do it, Jane,” he declares looking the woman straight in the eye and trying to ignore Arthur’s fiery gaze on him.

“Oh nonsense, Wallace. I’ve clearly got more experience than you—”

“He wouldn’t want _you_ touching him,” David says, effectively breaking the promise he made himself days ago, the one that involved not bringing up Eggsy and Arthur’s previous romantic involvement in front of Jane. _Oh, well. All’s fair in love and war, eh?_

“And how would you know anything about that?” Arthur snaps back, raising his voice.

“What do ye think, man?” David replies, equally as aggressive, dropping every shred of fake deference at once. “Eggsy _told_ me. He doesn’t want ye anywhere near him.”

“How bloody dare—”

“That is _enough_ from the both of you!” Jane quietly scolds them as she places herself between them, grabs each man by the elbow and drags them out of Eggsy’s room. Once the door is closed behind them, she points her index finger at each of them in turn, and keeps telling them off—considerably louder, this time. “Neither of you is any help to Galahad with that attitude. It’s a wonder at all that he can get any rest at all with the two of you going on like this.” She crosses her arms across her chest and scowls at them. “If you can’t control yourselves and sort things out between you, I will need to ask you both to leave.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Jane,” Arthur says, in an maddeningly composed tone. “This is my home, after all. If there’s one person who should leave, here, it’s Agent Wallace.”

“What? No!” David shouts, absolutely furious. He closes his fists and turns to properly face Arthur—that fucking smug face of his, the utter _nerve_ of him. “There is no way I’m leaving him alone here.”

“And what or who exactly do you think you’re protecting him from? He’s safe here.”

“Haven’t you been listening to me? Haven’t you been listening to _him_? He’s been done with you for months. And I think ye bloody well know it, even if ye won’t admit it.” _Step aside, old tart._

Arthur’s body tenses completely and his eyes turn positively deadly. “I have done nothing but what is best for him.”

“Best for him? Try best for _you_ ,” David spits out in response, pausing for a moment to let that sink in before continuing. “Far as I’m told, ye’ve done nothing but hurt him for years. I know for a fact that he doesn’t need or want you here when he wakes up. And if ye truly care about him, you will leave him alone.” He breathes in a rather big gulp of air, after that, feeling relieved, freed of the burden of having to show respect for the man.

For his part, Arthur just looks like he has been punched in the gut. “I do care about him, deeply. Probably more deeply than I might ever have guessed,” he says guiltily, glancing towards Eggsy’s closed bedroom door. “But I suppose my actions lately have not been demonstrative of that.” 

David scoffs and retorts, “Ever. You have jerked that man around by his generous, loving heart for far too long.” _And, again, you very well know it._ He straightens his spine imperceptibly and steels himself. He notices now that Jane has wisely decided to make herself scarce. _Bless that woman’s heart._ “Get out,” he says, resolutely. “Before I make ye.” 

“Might I remind you, Agent Wallace that this is my home and you are a guest—” 

“Aye, _your_ home, you never fail to remind everyone, every blasted minute of every day,” David interrupts, incensed. “Thing is, I don’ give a flying fuck about any of it, Arthur. If I have to remove Galahad myself right now so that he’s no longer under your so-called _care_ , I will. Do what you want—you can even go cry to Robert and Hume. Try and make them sack me, for all I care.” _Good bloody luck with that, mate._ “But know this: I will protect that man with my dying breath. And right now, it’s you he needs protecting from. So, respectfully, Arthur: get the fuck out. Now.” 

Arthur gathers himself, looking for all the world like he is gearing up once again for a fight, then deflates with a huff, nodding his head once. He turns away from Eggsy’s bedroom wordlessly, and disappears into his own. 

He emerges minutes later with a leather satchel and briefcase in his hand, looking every bit as displeased as he did when he entered it. David watches with a smirk as the man carefully locks the bedroom door behind him and leaves without so much as a word. 

_Good riddance_ , David thinks to himself as he watches the man depart through the front door, a black cab appearing from nowhere at the roadside. He shakes his head and bars the door before turning away to check on Eggsy, who is still in his nurse’s care, before going to his bag in the lounge to grab his lock picks. 

_Game on, Harry Hart._

*

**_Seven Sisters safehouse. Day 7. 9:45 AM_ **

David lingers. He’s been doing this every time he’s walked past Eggsy’s door for more than 72 hours now—ever since Arthur finally packed up and left. 

It’s all been so much clearer, since there’s been silence in the house. Since he’s been alone with his thoughts. So much more painful, this whole waiting game without a clear end to it. 

So he lingers, he does. He almost reaches for the doorknob, for a second. But ultimately, instead of opening the door and allowing himself to check on Eggsy, he soldiers on, past the door and down the stairs. _No use._

David knows that Eggsy doesn’t need him, right now. Eggsy has Jane to take care of him. She’s the only one who’s been any help at all, lately—coming in once a day to replace his drip, take care of basic hygiene, and occasionally break up arguments. She monitors Eggsy’s vitals, his blood pressure, his journey back into the land of the living. Even if David has been absolutely useless, she still seems to like him. Since Arthur left, she’s warmed to him. Her smile is bigger, every time David opens the door to let her in. She leaves little nuggets of hope for him every day. To hold on to. To hold on, period.

“He’s breathing more calmly,” she told him, two days ago. “His brain activity shows he’s been dreaming of good things. Sit with him more often.”

She definitely caught him staring, one late afternoon, because she asked him, “Would _you_ like to dress him, today? Pick out something nice? He’s going to wake up any day, now, you know. Might as well have him in clothes he loves—I have no idea what his style is, but I suspect you might.”

But Eggsy hasn’t. Woken up. Not yet. One full week, a lot of hope, but no real change. He’s just lying there, wearing black PJ bottoms and one of David’s army T-shirts. David specifically requested those would get brought in with their food delivery the other day. “I don’t care if it’s unreasonable—it’s my only request.”

David stops on the landing, a rush of dread washing through him. _What if Jane is wrong? What if they’re all wrong, and it’s too late? What if he never wakes up?_

And so the intrusive thoughts come back.

Because, well, there’s a part of him that knows exactly how this might go. He’s seen it already, hasn’t he? It did actually happen, years ago, in that godforsaken London hospital. He’d driven in straight from the bombing site. They wouldn’t give him news, not a single update for hours. Then, hope. _She might pull through_. Then, more waiting. Then, they took the hope away from him. _We’re sorry, she didn’t make it._

He shot himself, after that. And he never even really loved her.

_Fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck am I going to do, if he doesn’t make it?_

Coffee, breakfast, onto another lonely day without him.

Like every morning, the spacious, luminous old kitchen greets him with open arms. The mesmerising white cliffs of Seven Sisters are visible from the giant window over the counter and from the glass door that leads to the back garden. It’s a stunning view—but he can’t appreciate it, right now.

There is bread on the table, he notices. Fresh flowers. Warm croissants. Two. _Just in case, I guess._

It’s very hard, today, to take in that particular detail. For some reason. Probably—

The dream he’s had, from which he woke up screaming: kneeling in front of that burning building, Eggsy’s lifeless body in his arms, Roxy crying, his heart breaking. No cure. Too late. No cure.

It takes him three failed attempts to unscrew the top of the Moka pot he’s been using to make his coffee ever since he’s been here. He keeps dropping the bloody thing—distracted, hands sweating, chest heaving with the blooming promise of an oncoming panic attack.

_Fuck, come on. Focus. Focus. Don’t spiral. Breathe. He needs you, but not like this._

He puts everything down and bends over the counter, head in his hands. He closes his eyes, and inhales deeply.

_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine…_

A noise behind him startles him before he can get to ten. No, _multiple noises_. Soft thuds, wood creaking.

 _No._ _Can’t be._

A product of his imagination, surely. He stands straight again, shaky hands opening the cylindrical coffee tin, fancy blend, Italian, reminds him of—

“Hey, stranger.”

David turns on his heel, heart beating in his throat.

A loud bang breaks the silence: the tin David’s been holding hits the tiled kitchen floor, dark brown coffee grounds scattering all over the cream-coloured terracotta.

And, like that, light seems to flood the whole space—clouds blown away, uncovering the first, true, glorious sunny June day. Light is back. Life is back.

 _Eggsy_ is back.

He’s just standing there, tired eyes and crossed arms and bed-ruffled hair, leaning against the doorframe, as if it wasn’t a big fucking deal. As if he wasn’t, effectively, back from the dead.

David is shocked. Paralysed. Can’t remember how to breathe, for a few seconds.

Fifteen feet apart, Eggsy is staring at him with a half-smile on his face. He looks like he’s been to hell and back—and still he’s the most heartstoppingly beautiful thing David’s ever laid eyes on. And that doesn’t do anything to help him learn how to breathe again, sure, but that’s okay, whatever, who needs oxygen anyways? Surely not David, not anymore. Not now that Eggsy’s here again.

 _It’s really him_ , he keeps having to remind himself, while he’s busy staring at Eggsy, mouth agape and eyes wide. _He’s really here. He’s really standing straight, breathing, moving, talking. He’s—_

“Those are _my_ shorts you’re wearing, David.”

*

**_Eggsy’s bed. Ten minutes ago._ **

As he’s stirring in his sheets, pushing through the umpteenth replay of his own death by robot-bug poison, Eggsy notices something unusual. He’s been stuck in a loop for what feels like ten years—bite, illness, death, repeat—but today there is something different. Today, when he dreams of David’s eyes, the last thing he always sees before the darkness finally takes him, those eyes don’t go away. They stay fixed on his, smiling, gentle, blue as the Mediterranean sea and deep as an ocean trench. They tell him: “Come back to me.”

So, he does. He follows the light in those eyes. He listens to the sound of David’s voice, miles and miles of conversations that his brain has recorded, stocked for emergencies, moments like this, when he desperately needs to hear that warm, soft, beautifully accented voice.

He listens. He looks, he follows. It’s hard, but he walks on. He’s weak, and he doesn’t feel ready, but he does it all the same. He comes back. He comes back for David.

Head full of lead and body even heavier, it takes a while to actually rouse. When he does, he looks left and right—light coming in from a window, feeble but warm; a giant Victorian wardrobe, weirdly somewhat familiar; an antique writing desk and its matching chair, definitely familiar; a velvet armchair, understated burgundy and gold paisley print over a deep navy background; clean clothes resting on it, trousers and an olive grey T-shirt, neatly ironed and folded.

Three hours (or maybe just three minutes, can’t be sure) later, he’s come to a sitting position. He’s out of bed, now—

Before he realises, he’s standing at the top of the stairs. One hand on the polished mahogany handrail, his feet on the cream carpet, feeling the different textures against his skin, senses heightened, as if every part of his body was eager to _feel_ everything around him, after God knows how long spent lying in that bed. 

He doesn’t remember how he got there. He doesn’t remember getting up. He doesn’t remember putting on the soft grey cardigan he’s wearing. 

He doesn’t remember walking down the stairs and following the trail of small noises he can hear coming from… was it the kitchen? He’s sure he’s been here before. That one time with—

_Maybe, maybe he’s here. I don’t want him here._

He turns a corner, and his doubts are confirmed: it is the kitchen, luminous and spacious as he remembered. The source of the noises, however, isn’t Harry Hart after all. No. The source of the noises seems to be a very dishevelled-looking David Budd, who’s standing in front of the stove, fumbling with a coffee pot.

Without thinking, Eggsy speaks.

“Hey, stranger.”

Startled, David turns on his heel and drops the tin he’d been holding. Coffee goes everywhere, and the smell of it—toasty, pungent, delicious—immediately fills the air.

The _smell_. He can _smell_ the coffee. _God, is everything back to normal, then?_

Eggsy knows by just looking at David that he hasn’t shaved (the stubble looks four, maybe five days old?) or slept (dark circles under his eyes, so evident now that they’re exposed to the bright light coming in from the window, reflecting the white off the cliff) in _days_.

And yet, Eggsy also reckons that David has never looked more beautiful. This, he supposes, is how one feels when one is in love.

He’s waiting for David to say hello back, but David looks transfixed, in shock. Mouth hanging half open, unblinking. Like he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing. Like Eggsy’s a ghost. Like he didn’t think—

_Fuck. Better say something dumb, defuse the tension._

“Those are _my_ shorts you’re wearing, David,” is the only thing he can come up with. Pathetic attempt, but. Oh. Well.

_Please say something. Please, David, please._

David doesn’t. He blinks, however. Once. Twice. Closes his mouth. Blinks again.

They’re standing quite a distance apart, and yet Eggsy can perfectly make it out—that sudden resolve in his eyes. He knows that look very well.

Despite himself—he wants to keep looking so bad, but he feels burned by that gaze, stared at right to the utmost depth of his soul—Eggsy blinks too.

When he opens his eyes, David’s standing considerably closer. So close, in fact, that Eggsy can smell him. That fabric softener they use, the one from home in Glasgow, seemingly neutral but still mind-numbingly addictive. The faint lingering scent of some minty shower gel. The strong aroma of coffee in the air, scattered on the kitchen floor and dusted on three of his fingertips. His hands. His—

“David,” he hears himself say. And it’s a plea, now.

Suddenly, Eggsy’s back is against the white wooden doorframe, David’s right hand is on Eggsy’s jaw, the other is in Eggsy’s hair, and their lips are finding their way back to where they belong.

It’s slow and delicate and perfect, but also hard and desperate and bittersweet. It’s a kiss that says _I missed you_ , _I love you_ , _I’m sorry_ , and _never let me go_ , all at the same time. It tastes sweet as caramel and salty as the sea outside their window.

(It’s tears, of course, real tears, fuck, they’re both crying now, breathing hard, taking it all in, letting it all out.)

Eggsy tugs on David’s T-shirt and gets him closer. He needs to feel him, the weight of him, his strong, comforting presence, how real it is, how real _this_ is. He needs to know that this isn’t just a beautiful dream—or one of his nightmares, those where David isn’t there at all, where he disappears as soon as Eggsy reaches out to touch him. So he splays his palm over David’s chest, and sighs in relief when David doesn’t disappear; when instead he feels sturdy muscles flex underneath soft cotton as David kisses him deeper, more demanding, perfect. _No,_ Eggsy tells himself. _This isn’t a dream. This is definitely real. This is really happening._

For once in his life, he feels like he’s not overthinking it: it just feels _right_ , to finally abandon himself to David. There’s no trace of doubt left in his mind, no anxiety, no fear: he knows that David will take care of him, and that his feelings are true. And, well, that knowledge alone is enough.

“I love you,” he whispers against David’s lips, as he feels David’s hands close around his forearms and gently pull him away from the wall. David’s eyes are still closed, for the briefest second—still lost in it, evidently—but they pop open immediately. _Hi. Here you are._ Those shocking blue irises that have lived in Eggsy’s dreams for months, finally his to admire at his leisure. _Perfect._ “I love you,” he says again, holding David’s gaze. He hears himself, the second time: his voice sounds wet, wobbly.

David smiles, and his face lights up completely. “I know,” he says, taking Eggsy’s face in both his hands and kissing him again. “I love you too,” he then echoes, pressing their foreheads together.

“Thank you for saving my life.”

“I wouldnae have had it any other way, love. You saved mine months ago, remember?” he says, a couple of tears rolling down his cheeks and losing themselves in his longer-than-usual stubble. “And last week too, actually,” he says, smiling broader still and shaking his head. “See, I’m hopeless without ye.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Budd,” Eggsy replies, snaking one hand up from David’s chest to his face, drying off his tears. _Fuck, you’re beautiful._ “Hey, David?” he asks, as an idea creeps into his mind—one that he’s been repressing for way too long, now.

“Aye?” David replies, raising a questioning eyebrow.

“Are we—you know…” He briefly looks around, finding that words are apparently difficult to come by. “Is he…?” 

Thankfully, David cottons on and interrupts his ineloquent inquiry. “Are we alone, d’ye mean?”

Eggsy nods briefly, riveted by the look in David’s eyes. He can swear he’s just seen a sudden glint in them. _Oh._

“Aye, we’re alone. He—Harry left, two days ago. I knew ye wouldnae have wanted him here, so I took care of it.”

Eggsy feels his heartbeat pick up again, as he considers the implications of what David’s just said. _I need to thank him. I need to tell him how much this means to me_.

“I want you, David,” however, is all that comes out. And Eggsy finds he’s perfectly okay with it.

It’s like a switch has been flicked: David’s expression goes very serious, and he nods once, almost solemnly, before kissing Eggsy again, with renewed fervour, as he manoeuvres him out of the kitchen.

“Fuck, I want _you_ ,” David rumbles, somehow managing to get a hand on Eggsy’s butt and pulling their groins closer as they stumble across the carpeted floor and towards the stairs. Eggsy feels it—David’s cock pressing into the inside of his thigh, like a promise, and gasps louder than he thought he would. “Yeah,” David says, chuckling lightly into another kiss. “ _That’s_ how ye get me. Since the first time I saw ye. Good thing you were insufferable—otherwise I wouldn’t’ve gotten any work done.”

Eggsy blushes deeply and laughs in acknowledgment, words failing him again, as he takes step after step backwards up the stairs. He moves his hand down David’s front, past his taut abdomen and the waistband of his bottoms, and he cups David’s erection, which more or less makes his brain short-circuit. All he can think of, for a split-second, is the girth and the hardness of what he’s touching, and how good it would feel inside him. Something he’s wanted for so long, and that can finally, finally be his. It’s so overwhelming, for a moment, that he doesn’t pay attention to where he’s going. 

He falters—on the first landing, thank God, falling down the stairs really isn’t on the programme for today—but David immediately catches him. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, worriedly. “Fuck, I’m sorry. Ye’re probably not feeling well, are ye? Maybe we should...”

“...wait?” Eggsy replies, as he firmly squeezes David’s cock, the whole length of it, with a swift flick of his wrist. David’s mouth falls open, and he sucks in a deep breath. _Oh yeah, that’s right_ , Eggsy thinks, as a devilish smile creeps up his face. “I mean, I feel tickety-fucking-boo, honestly—but you’re right, maybe we should wait.”

David makes a noise that Eggsy’s never heard before, halfway between a desperate whine and a possessive growl, as he cups both of Eggsy’s arsecheeks in his hands and all but lifts his feet up the floor, walking him back into another wall.

“You cheeky fuck,” he whispers, smiling against Eggsy’s lips. 

_Oh that’s the brand, my love._

“Who, me?” Eggsy replies, with a wink, stealing another kiss, that makes David shake his head and chuckle. 

Eggsy doesn’t know for how long they make out, before David pulls back a bit and looks at him, hard and serious all of a sudden.

“Get yer legs up and around me,” he says, firmly.

“You what?” _Does he want to…?_

“Ye heard me. C’mon,” David says again, raising an eyebrow and sounding impatient.

“David, no, you’re going to break your—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, shut up,” David replies, effectively hurling him up, grunting from the effort but looking perfectly ecstatic with his performance once Eggsy instinctively obeys and does close his legs around David’s waist.

“My God,” Eggsy says, comically throwing his head against the wall as if he was swooning. “My big, strong man.”

“Shhh,” David breathes, placing a soft kiss in the crook of his neck that sends a shiver down Eggsy’s spine, then getting his hands under the back of Eggsy’s thighs and slowly starting to walk up the last few steps towards the bedrooms.

Eggsy holds on for dear life, hands gripping David’s shoulders and trying not to look too mesmerised at the physical prowess of the man who’s currently _carrying_ him up a flight of stairs, fucking hell, as if that was a thing that could ever happen to him, in his real life, ever. _Not so sure this isn’t actually a dream, anymore._

“Seriously, fuck off, you’re so fucking hot,” he can’t help but say, as David successfully gets them to their coveted destination. David doesn’t seem to mind the praise—he’s blushing, sure, but he looks very pleased with himself, too.

“My bedroom or yours?” he asks, simply, taking another couple of steps forward.

“Yours,” Eggsy replies, without thinking twice. 

*

“Off,” Eggsy demands, tugging on David’s shirt as soon as David has sat him down on the bed. “Wanna see you.”

“You first,” David replies, kneeling next to him, expectant. 

Eggsy raises both eyebrows in mock surprise, then scoots upwards on the bed with a playful look on his face. “C’mon then. Make me.”

A couple of minutes later, with both their tops are off and lips sore from kissing, David concludes a successful and extremely loving wrestling session over Harry Hart’s silk sheets, in Harry Hart’s master bedroom, in Harry Hart’s cottage by the sea— _fuck you, Harry Hart_ —by finally pinning Eggsy down, holding both his wrists above his head with one hand, and getting his trackies off with the other. In all this, Eggsy looks absolutely ecstatic: eyes wide, lips parted, chest heaving, _Christ, I can’t believe this is actually happening_. Having Eggsy like this, underneath him, open and vulnerable and _willing_ —it’s a thousand times better than the picture David had painted in his head way back when, the day they first met, but it’s also definitely bringing back memories. 

“You know,” he starts, smiling complacently as Eggsy lifts his hips to make David’s job—taking his bottoms off—easier, “I may or may not have been dreaming of getting ye like this.”

Eggsy raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Oh _really_ ,” he says. Not a question. “Like, what, naked under you?”

David feels blood rush to his cheeks. “Aye. That day you showed up at the distillery, when...”

“...you knocked me out, tied me up, got me on my knees, pressed a knife—sorry, a _sgian_ to my throat,” Eggsy helpfully continues, wiggling underneath David’s grip and straining his neck upwards, looking for a kiss.

David chuckles and obliges, pecking his lips softly. “You remember, eh? Well, I… Fuck, I feel bad for saying this—I really enjoyed getting ye like that,” he admits, feeling himself go redder in the face by the second. _This isn’t usually something I talk about out loud. But you’re different, aren’t you?_

“ _Did_ you, now,” Eggsy replies, appreciatively—once again, not a question. “What if I told you I also enjoyed that very much, and that in fact it’s been haunting my dreams ever since?”

“I’d say,” David says, pausing to adhere his palm to Eggsy’s cock over his boxers, relishing in the surprised and lust-glazed look in his eyes, “that we really seem tae have found each other.” 

While he waits for Eggsy—awe-stricken, dishevelled, gorgeous Eggsy—to reply, David pushes his legs open a tad more, and kneels between them. He gently strokes Eggsy’s erection with one hand, while lovingly caressing his sparse chest hair with the other. 

“I’d say you’re spot on, as usual,” Eggsy finally manages, with an elated smile, before throwing his head backwards and sucking in a sharp breath. “Fuck, David, that’s so good. You’re perfect.”

“No, love. Look at you,” David says, leaning in to kiss Eggsy’s collarbones, moving down to his pecs and nipples, seeing the hair on Eggsy’s skin stand up as he keens and visibly shivers in anticipation. “ _You’re_ perfect.”

“Oh, c’mon. Ten years ago, maybe, but now I’m all pudgy and—”

“No, no, no, absolutely shut yer gob,” David interrupts, leaning forward again, so his face is hovering over Eggsy’s. “You’re so beautiful. Can’t believe you don’t see it.” He pauses for a beat and caresses Eggsy’s cheek. “Will ye let me show you?”

Eggsy bites his lower lip and nods. “Yeah, alright. Show me.”

“Belter. Well, to start with, I love this bit,” David says, pressing his lips into the crook of Eggsy’s neck, left side then right. “Because ye’re so sensitive, and ye make such pretty noises when I kiss ye here.”

On cue, Eggsy moans softly and tangles a hand in David’s hair, which David takes as the best possible encouragement. Like that, he continues kissing down the body he’s been dreaming of for months on end—the one who’s usually squeezed into flawless tailored suits, and that looks even better without clothes on, the one who he and only he gets to see this way—detailing how incredibly beautiful every bit of it is, and feeling Eggsy preen under his attentions.

When he’s crawled back far enough, David looks up at Eggsy from his new comfortable spot between his legs, face dangerously close to his crotch. He has both hands on Eggsy’s hips, thumbs gently stroking the soft skin of his lower belly.

“And finally, I love this bit here,” he says, kissing the trail of hair going from Eggsy’s belly button down to the waistband of his boxers, eyes still fixed on Eggsy’s face “Because it makes my mind wander. I like imagining what you look like underneath. May I—”

“Yes, please, God, yes,” Eggsy blurts, in a rather desperate tone. “You don’t need to ask, you know, love.”

“Just checking ye havnae changed yer mind,” David replies, hooking a couple of fingers under the waistband and tugging on it, just enough to expose more skin and kiss Eggsy there, but not enough to uncover him completely.

Eggsy groans and lets out a strained laugh. “Fuuuck, you’re killing me. No, I haven’t changed my mind, you silly man,” he says, stroking David’s hair fondly. “I love you. I’m yours.”

 _Mine_ , David thinks, as he nods tenderly. _Mine_. He doesn’t say it back, however: as soon as Eggsy’s boxers are off, he finds that the unexpected river of eloquence that he was swimming in while praising Eggsy’s body has completely run dry. 

Then again, they do say that actions speak louder than words, so he decides to test the theory for himself. He does this by taking his sweet time on Eggsy’s cock, uncovering its glistening wet head first, kissing it, then stroking it up and down, gentle but firm, as his ears fill with loud moans and countless whispered profanities. Before getting it fully into his mouth, however, he moves to kiss the length of it as his fist remains closed on it, chasing fingers with lips, down to Eggsy’s balls and the inside of those gorgeous thighs.

“Please, David, _please_ ,” Eggsy begs, after a while. “I can’t… I need… Can you—oh _fuck_ , fuck, yes,” he breathes, just as David’s lips finally wrap around his cock and let him in fully. He hollows his cheeks and moves slowly, losing himself in the sensation of finally being able to do this. To be the one who can give Eggsy all the pleasure he deserves.

He hasn’t done this in a while, but he’s always been quite good at it—his partners’ words, not his—so he manages to get back into it quicker than he thought he would: it turns out that giving head, especially to someone you’re overly fond of, really is like riding a bike. And it feels so fucking good, too. In fact, he’s pretty sure he’s never enjoyed it as much as he’s doing now, deliberately getting the cock in his mouth as wet as he can and looking up at Eggsy while he does it, captivated by the way Eggsy is looking down at him and how he now seems to be positively losing it, breaking down under David’s touch, the swirls of his tongue and the bobbing of his head. All the cheeky coolness Eggsy usually dons seems to have vanished completely, to be replaced by sheer neediness and utter wonderment at David’s oral skills.

David tries a thing, at some point, a particular pattern with the tip of his tongue down Eggsy’s shaft, that has Eggsy cry out and jerk his hips upwards, desperately looking for more. Immediately, David sees an apology get painted on his face—but there’s nothing to apologise for, really: this is good, this _perfect_ , and Eggsy needs to know it, before he can say anything out loud. So, David reaches a hand forward and grabs one of Eggsy’s, squeezing it, praying his gesture will convey what he wants to say, _it’s okay, you can move, I can take it, I’ve got you, you’re amazing_. When Eggsy tightens his grip and nods, managing a weak smile as he gently drives his hips up, pushing his cock into David’s mouth—that’s when David knows he’s done it. _Good boy, Eggsy. Give it to me, love_ , he thinks, feeling Eggsy’s other hand tangling in his curls and pets them as David takes him in deeper.

Eggsy throws his head back and picks up a slow but steady pace, one which has him let out a series of small, beautiful noises, that get increasingly louder and more high-pitched as his thrusts become shallower and more unhinged. It’s so good to feel Eggsy like this, that David’s completely oblivious to the passing of time, for a while. What brings him back to reality is feeling Eggsy lightly tugging on his hair as he thrusts in more desperately, moaning in delight but also whining a bit.

“Please—oh, David, _please_ ,” Eggsy says, his tone strained and frantic, “stop, I’m gonna—”

David obliges, expertly moving his head up while hollowing his cheeks while he gets Eggsy’s cock out of his mouth, which makes an absolutely ungodly popping noise as it does.

“You can, you know,” David replies, his fist closing around the spit-slick shaft and kissing the head once more. “I want to make you feel good, love.”

Eggsy smiles a blissed-out kind of smile, then reaches down to caress David’s cheek.

“Oh, shush, I _do_ feel good. You know how amazing you are at this, you smug arse,” he chuckles, shaking his head in what looks like amused disbelief. “It’s just that I—ah, fuck, _fuck_ ,” he cuts himself off, as David strokes his cock from base to tip once again, and thrusts into his hand. “Bastard. I just meant to say—I want to feel you. Inside me. Don’t want to come yet. I need you, David. Please.”

Despite the playful tone, he sounds very serious. It’s that look in his eyes, too. Peaceful, thrilled, yet asking for more. That reverence. There’s only one way David thinks it can be repaid.

“Yes, Eggsy.”

*

“Fuck, please, more…” Eggsy moans, nothing but a breathless whisper now, as he feels the tips of David’s fingers brush against the sweet spot inside him. “Give me another,” he pleads, reaching out to touch the side of David’s neck and curling his fingers to dig blunt nails in David’s soft skin, showing him how much he needs it.

He feels so beautifully loose. He hasn’t felt like this in so long; the last time he came close to this idyllic, careless kind of happiness was when he and David were roaming about Italian streets, eating ice cream and openly talking about life and its many overly complicated facets. Except ‘careless’, really, isn’t the right word—the list of Eggsy’s concerns at the time was still impressively fucking long and complicated, and only now he realises how different it feels not to have to _think_ about all that. To just be able to enjoy the present moment, and the sheer bliss of it. To just be able to watch David in awe, and see that look on his face, love and lust scattered on his beautiful features. To be able to lie next to David, legs spread, bare, completely exposed, and let David open him up with his perfect fingers. To be able to trust someone so easily and completely, to have no lingering doubt about their intentions. To just let himself go.

David, his eyes dark with lust, his teeth digging into his luscious lower lip, accommodates him again. He adds a third finger, twisting the ones already inside to make room for it, and Eggsy sees his mouth fall open in wonderment when it slides right in, with little to no difficulty, stretching Eggsy beautifully and not painfully at all. It’s just—

“So fucking good,” Eggsy hears himself say, louder this time, only to let out a choked groan when David gets knuckle deep and curls his fingers to rub against his prostate once more.

“Ye take it so well, fuck,” David growls, leaning in closer to whisper into Eggsy’s ear. “Can’t wait to be inside you, love. Fill you with my cock. Want you so bad.”

Eggsy’s entire body feels like it’s been struck by lightning. He’s not quite sure if it’s the hot breath tickling the sensitive skin in the crook of his neck, or the sheer filth and the hunger he’s just heard, perceived, felt, so close, so real, from the man he’s spent countless sleepless nights lusting over. He just knows that he, too, wants exactly what David wants. And right now, if possible.

“Please, yes, want you too,” he lets out, shaky and weak, as David drives his fingers in and out a tad more quickly, the perfect drag of them against his walls making him want to beg some more. “Fuck me, please, I’m ready, I need you…”

David hums in assent, kissing Eggsy’s temple, then kissing his earlobe, then _biting_ his earlobe and making an ungodly low noise as he pulls his fingers out slowly, making a point of spreading them out a tad. Eggsy feels it, the stretch, and it’s amazing, and he never wants it to end. He whines at the loss of it when David’s fingers are finally out of him, but his misery doesn’t last long: the next thing he sees, in fact, completely obliterates every sensation of fullness and lack thereof inside him, and he forgets how to breathe for a few beats, as so often happens around David.

The sight of him, crawling back on his hands and knees—his lube-slick fingers leaving a series of dark, wet spots on the luxurious emerald silk sheets—and standing at the foot of the bed, statuary and stunning, his body just _there_ for Eggsy to admire, is gorgeous enough to make time stand still. Every old scar, every new wound, every bruise. Every hill and valley of muscle. Every pattern of hair on his chest, his stomach, his thighs. His fingers, those that just spent what has felt like hours opening Eggsy up, searching for that perfect spot inside him, slowly pulling down those dark grey boxers, and finally revealing what Eggsy felt pressing against himself multiple times (when they found themselves making out in the past), and the palm of his hand (just earlier, on the stairs), that has threatened to send him on a one-way trip to bedlam.

David’s cock, thick and beautiful, stands every bit as hard and perfect as Eggsy had hoped, prayed, and ultimately assumed it might. It looks dark, inside the grip of David’s pale fist, as he strokes it slowly and carefully, unveiling its head and the shiny precome pooled around the slit. Eggsy is so enthralled he barely can bring himself to look David in the eyes, for a second—but when he does, he finds the same love and overwhelming yearning that he felt from David’s words, a moment ago, reflected into his pupils, now an ink black spill in a tropical sea.

Eggsy’s legs instinctively part a tad more the minute David kneels back on the bed, still mindlessly stroking his cock and looking at him like he’s the most mesmerising thing he’s ever seen. He’s really eloquent at the best of times, David—all eyebrows and head tilts and intense glaring, like an overly-expressive big cat—but right now, while he’s kneeling between Eggsy’s thighs with a hand on Eggsy’s bent knee and the other on his own cock, Eggsy knows exactly what he’s about to ask. So, he precedes him.

“No, no need for protection,” he says, covering David’s hand on his knee with his. “I take…”

“PrEP, I know,” David finishes for him. “The nurse told me she’s been diluting yer treatment into yer daily IV. I do too, by the way,” he adds, with a small, elated smile.

“Wicked. Then what’re you waitin’ for?” Eggsy says, momentarily taking back control of his wits and managing one of his usual bratty spells.

“Jus’ thought I’d check. Force of habit, I s’pose. Plus, I wanted a moment to look at ye. You’re so gorgeous, all naked and ready for me.” He leans to one side to retrieve the small black bottle of lube he’d discarded earlier, and pours a generous amount on his palm, never breaking eye contact.

_How. How are you real. And how do I get to be with you._

“I am ready,” Eggsy breathes. “For you. Been ready for— _fuck_ , David,” he cuts himself off: the wet, obscene noises of David slicking up his cock suddenly fill the room, as he thrusts in and out of his closed fist at a deliberate pace, making Eggsy lose his train of thought completely.

He reaches a hand out, between his legs, and David takes the hint: he inches closer on his knees, close enough for Eggsy to touch him, his chest, his abs, and finally his hand on his dick, which Eggsy takes off to replace it with his. The angle is a bit awkward, but he doesn’t care: finally being able to touch it, this most intimate part of David that he’s longed for, every night and most days, is priceless. “Please,” he says, simply. _I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want you._

“Yes, baby,” David replies, in a whisper, gently pushing Eggsy’s legs backwards, silently encouraging him to bend them. As he does so, he lingers—palms on the back of Eggsy’s thighs, caressing his hamstrings top to bottom, until he cups both of Eggsy’s buttocks in his hands and grins fondly. “Cannae believe I get to do this. Best arse in the British Isles.”

Inches away from what he’s anticipating will be the best sex of his entire life, Eggsy finds himself _blushing_ once more.

“Oh, fuck off. Best arse in the British _underground secret services_ , perhaps. And even then, that’d be far off.”

David shrugs, visibly unfazed. “Guess it’s my fault—forgot tae mention it while we were on our wee tour of yer gorgeous body, earlier. Was thinking I’d…” he trails off, moving closer to align the tip of his cock to Eggsy’s entrance. “Was thinking I’d _show_ you how much I like it, instead,” he says, leaning forward to rest on his arm as he starts to thrust in slowly.

During the way too many dark and cold nights Eggsy spent in his bed in Glasgow, he more often than not let his mind wander. He thought about David, lying in another bed, so close and yet so far; he mooned like a desperate teenage boy about how gorgeous David was, and how unattainable; about how it had felt to actually kiss David, that one time, in a very public place, and how it would feel to have David on top of him, between his legs, inside him. The answer to the latter was, systematically, ‘very fucking good’: in his fantasies, David always knew how to handle him, when to go fast and go slow, where he needed to be touched, what he needed to say to make Eggsy lose his mind. In his fantasies, David was everything Eggsy’d always wanted in a man: confident, competent, loving, and just the right amount of rough.

Eggsy never thought for one second that, whenever (and _if_ ) he and David would actually manage to get together in that way, the reality could ever top his reveries. But now, as David’s cock is finally entering him, as they’re finally becoming one, Eggsy realises he’s been wrong all along: it _is_ better than anything he could ever have dreamed of.

“Are you okay, baby?” David asks, once he’s in fully.

Eggsy opens his eyes—he hadn’t even realised he’d closed them—and is met by David’s gorgeous concerned face. He nods, feeling a giddy smile forming on his face, which David immediately mirrors.

“Mmmhyes,” Eggsy breathes. “ _Very_ okay. Brilliant. You’re a dream.”

As if in response, David bats his lashes and resumes biting his lower lip, then tentatively starts pulling out. The thickness of his cock, the angle, the way he’s looking down at Eggsy—

“Oh, God, _yes_ ,” he groans, reaching up to close his hands around the top of David’s shoulders. “Please, move, fuck me, I—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, because David immediately delivers. He pulls out almost completely, then drives back in, still slow but definitely more calculated. It’s the best feeling, being so full, so complete, their bodies finally fused together, so indescribably good that, by the time David is thrusting in a third time, Eggsy barely realises that he’s actually shedding a few tears. He only does when David acknowledges it himself—leverages all his weight on one arm and uses the other to swipe the tears off Eggsy’s face.

“Hey, hey,” he says, softly, slowing down his pace.

“No, no,” Eggsy replies, frantically shaking his head and tilting it to kiss David’s wet palm. “No, please, don’t stop. You just feel so good. I’m so happy.”

“I’m happy too,” David echoes, with a huge grin, thrusting in sharply immediately after and completely knocking the air out of Eggsy’s lungs. Eggsy makes a small, strangled noise that has David’s mouth fall open in awe, his brow furrowed and his eyes dark and glazed. “Fuck, look at you. Fucking perfect.”

He keeps leaning on one arm and holding onto Eggsy’s face with his other hand, gripping it as he starts on a more determined pace that has him grunting and Eggsy moaning loudly and asking for more, _deeper, harder, please_.

“See, this is what I meant,” David says, after a while, punctuating every few words with a thrust. “Best arse in Britain.”

Eggsy laughs a strangled kind of laugh that sounds more like a desperate, choked moan.

“And it’s, _oh_ , yours,” he says, somehow managing not to interrupt himself completely as David drives in a tad harder still.

“And it’s mine, aye,” David replies, pressing his quads closer into Eggsy’s butt and coming down to rest on his forearms. The angle changes, and it all feels more real, somehow.

“Fuck, you’re— _fuck_ ,” Eggsy whines. He pulls his knees in, to allow David to get even closer, and for his cock to get even deeper, brushing against Eggsy’s prostate with every stroke, and it’s so indescribably good that, on cue, more tears come. It’s instantaneous: he feels them burn the corners of his eyes and roll down his cheeks, those salty drops of happiness and relief. And he feels that familiar fire starting to crackle, deep inside him. “I’m… _oh,_ God, fuck, so close— _fuck_ , please, kiss me…” he pleads.

David adjusts his forearms until he can comfortably pet Eggsy’s hair, and he starts by kissing Eggsy’s forehead, the bridge of his nose, the wet corners of his eyes, his cheekbones, the corners of his mouth; it’s sweet, ethereal brushes of skin on skin, rose petals caressing Eggsy’s spent face—while David is still rolling his hips and making Eggsy feel every inch of him, dragging in and out slowly, excruciatingly slowly. When he gets to Eggsy’s lips, however, he seems to switch gears completely: he kisses them deeply, simultaneously picking up the pace, fucking into him hard, fast, low groans vibrating between their sealed lips, tongues searching, perfect. 

“So… fucking… good…” David breathes, breaking the kiss and burying his head in the crook of Eggsy’s neck. “Gonna…”

“Fuck, fuck, do it,” Eggsy says, gripping David’s biceps in his hands, feeling the hardness of the curves underneath his fingers. “Come inside me.”

“No,” David growls in response, coming up to look Eggsy in the eyes once more. “You first,” he states, in a dominating tone, lifting up a tad and pushing Eggsy’s arms down, into the pillow, so his hands are above his head. “Wanna look at you while ye come on my cock.”

Eggsy wants to reply to that. Something mouthy, something he would normally say when someone tries to put him in his place—no matter the occasion, no matter the circumstances, rain or shine, everyone knows he’s a brat. And yet, when he opens his mouth to do it, nothing comes to him. David is fucking him and talking like _that_ while at it, and Eggsy finds, as a result, that every shred of his eloquence is completely gone. He just nods, instead, as every muscle in his entire body seems to want to clench. It’s a mixture of things, really: the fact that David is kneeling back and Eggsy can see that perfectly sculpted body in its entirety again; the way David’s looking at him, as if to say don’t you dare touch yourself, keep your hands where I put them; the position shift, when David gets his hands on Eggsy’s thighs and pulls them together, so Eggsy’s ankles are on each side of his neck; the way he tilts his head to one side and murmurs “mine” as he kisses one of Eggsy’s calves.

“Fuck, yes, yes, David, I’m— _oh_ ,” Eggsy fails to finish another sentence as David swiftly caresses down his legs, then grips the top of his thighs and bends forward, thrusting in once, twice, three times, hard enough to make a loud clapping noise as his quads collide with Eggsy’s buttocks. Every time is a thrill, electricity spreading throughout Eggsy’s entire body as he feels his orgasm building faster and faster—that perfect cock inside him, guiding him, unravelling him, freeing him, and that perfect man on top of him, looking at him with love in his eyes, love and admiration and want, and—

“That’s right, baby, come for me, that’s a good boy…” David rumbles, leaning further down to catch his lips in a hard, open-mouthed kiss, that muffles Eggsy’s ecstatic cries as he feels his release finally coming.

When he climaxes, David’s hand is miraculously wrapped around his cock, and it’s pumping it at the same rhythm as he’s fucking into him, beautifully steady, just what Eggsy needs. He feels the wetness on his stomach, the milky white evidence of his and David’s union, and he sees it all over David’s closed fist, trickling down his knuckles—and, _fuck_ , it’s possibly the filthiest thing he’s ever seen in real life, and one of the most beautiful.

He’s about to say it out loud, make one of his usual cheeky remarks, but he finds that his brain is completely melted, orgasm-silly, fucked out, so much so he can’t reasonably manage any actual words. He contents himself with looking at David, instead. He sees him looking down at his own hand, still wrapped around Eggsy’s cock, and his other one, firmly squeezing the side of Eggsy’s thigh. David looks so strained, so stunning, and so oddly concerned, with his mouth slack, his brow furrowed, and his chest heaving—and, somehow, Eggsy knows that means he’s about to come, too.

Eggsy is proven right only mere seconds later, when the pitch of David’s groans changes, gets louder and deeper, and when his thrusts become closer together, quicker, shallower, frantic, and they still feel so _fucking_ good against his overstimulated prostate, he simply has to say something.

“Fill me up, c’mon, I want you,” he whispers, just as David throws his head back and grips Eggsy’s thighs harder, fingernails digging tiny half moons into hard muscle, and Eggsy feels David spill inside him, warm and hard.

*

It takes a while to actually come down from their high. 

David doesn’t pull out immediately: he spreads Eggsy’s legs once again, so Eggsy’s a bit more comfortable, then gets down on his forearms to kiss him. It’s messy, all smiles, teeth and tongue and hard breathing and whispered fucked-out nonsense, and it’s the most perfect kiss they’ve ever shared.

“You’re fucking incredible”, Eggsy murmurs, punctuating every word with a peck on David’s lips.

“No, you are,” David insists, moving on to place butterfly kisses all over Eggsy’s warm, slightly sweaty face. “You’re perfect.”

“Alright, alright,” Eggsy says, comically rolling his eyes while he moves his head to accommodate David’s attentions. “Let’s just say we’re both great, the best, sex geniuses, Britain’s new power couple, move over Meghan and Harry, eh?”

David can’t contain his mirth at Eggsy’s signature cheek. He laughs into the crook of Eggsy’s neck, then emerges to look at him. His giddy smile. The beautiful lines on his face. His eyes.

“Aye, we’re both great,” he confirms. “I love you, silly man.” _I’m so glad you’re alive._

“I love you too, Best Cock in the British Isles,” Eggsy replies, with a raised eyebrow. “Now, would you mind—” he trails off, looking down at where their bodies are still joined. “Would like to stretch a bit, I’m sore as fuck.”

David nods, and chuckles apologetically. “Aye, sorry love,” he says, while delicately pulling out and watching Eggsy’s face contract a bit at the loss. He has an immediate thought, then, and doesn’t think twice before acting on it: he gets two fingers against Eggsy’s hole, and smiles down at him. He sees Eggsy’s expression turn from confused to questioning to incredulous, in three seconds flat.

“You…” he breathes. David nods, inching back on his knees to show his meaning. “Fuck, David, what the fuck.”

“Been dying to get my mouth on you,” David says, simply, looking up at Eggsy from between his thighs and smiling giddily, his right hand still at work, fingers lazily dipping into Eggsy’s loose hole. “Would you—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence: Eggsy starts nodding frantically, then looks down at his come-stained stomach for a second, seemingly considering what to do. Half a second later, he shrugs—a shrug that, if David isn’t sorely mistaken, spells out _fuck you, Harry Hart_ —and flips onto his stomach, further ruining the silk sheets and exposing his perfect bum, in all its glory, for David to admire, praise, and worship.

“Remind me, David: how long do we get to stay here, doing this?” Eggsy asks, half-muffled by his pillow.

“Dinnae ken,” David replies, kissing Eggsy’s right buttock. “I s’pose…” he pauses, placing another kiss on his left, “until ye’re fit enough to get back to work.”

“Fuck work,” Eggsy says. “Let’s tell them I’m _really_ poorly. Let’s— _oh, fuck_ ,” he breathes, while David licks broadly across his hole, tasting himself there. “Let’s never leave this place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! We hope you're alright, and not *too* shaken.  
> But most of all, we really hope we've managed to deliver on (at least most of) our promises. You lovely people have been so patient, with this absolutely ridiculous slow burn, and you more than deserve a worthy payoff. 
> 
> Now, for some news: we are both going to be terribly busy in the month of December, and we unfortunately don't feel comfortable to keep promising you bi-monthly updates for a wee while. Don't worry, we're not leaving forever: like this summer, we're simply taking a small break to get our lives in order, celebrate Christmas as best as we can, wave goodbye to this pile of horseshit of a year, and then we'll be back with the end of this epic adventure. Promise ❤❤❤
> 
> Thank you for sticking with us, you're the best.
> 
> See you very soon!
> 
> Love,
> 
> M and C xx
> 
> P.S.: As usual, we'd be super duper happy to hear what you thought of the chapter. If you want to drop a COMINT, both us and the kitty will be eternally grateful ❤ Love you all! xxx


	20. XVI. Tranquilitas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your tech genius boss, calling on a ye olde telephone to apologise to a little shit like me? Please, Budd.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well well well. Look who's back.
> 
> We've been away for a while, haven't we? But now, well, here we are. New chapter, baby! A new piece of this crazy long story is finally available for your reading pleasure, after a way too long hiatus. The end of 2020 was, well, a complicated time for both of us. But we're slowly getting back on the train, now, and we hope to be bringing you more of this soon.
> 
> As usual, you'll find some music **[over here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7ypHO6TKmm9MkGQxGxHuJZ?si=jvZfbCjLRb2YFzChIlpA_w)** , to accompany you on this sex-filled journey. (Yes, there's _a lot of sex_ in this chapter. You're welcome. ❤)

****

**_XVI. Tranquilitas_ **

**_Seven Sisters safehouse. Day 9. 10:55 AM_ **

For a safehouse, there really is little bloody privacy, David considers. He’s hoisted Eggsy up on the kitchen counter and he’s _just_ managed to get his hands halfway down Eggsy’s pants... and he hears someone politely coughing behind him. It turns out it’s Fred with the food delivery for the next couple of days—so, as interruptions go, a rather welcome one. But they’re not always this pleasant.

For one, they seem to be getting an awful lot of phone calls. And again, some of them—his mum and dad, Charlie and Ella, Julia secretly checking in via the network—absolutely do fill David’s heart with glee. They also, however, disrupt his and Eggsy’s coveted alone time... and peeling his fingers, lips, tongue, hands away from Eggsy to answer calls always is a bit of a hardship.

One Wednesday morning, David finds himself naked with his back to the bedroom wall, one hand fisted in Eggsy’s hair, slowly thrusting in and out of Eggsy’s mouth and whispering mild profanities as Eggsy’s clever tongue threatens to make him totally lose it after barely a couple of minutes, when he sees the Clansman network come to life behind his temporarily closed eyes and he reads Andrew’s name on the display.

He immediately opens his eyes again and looks down at Eggsy, finding him looking up, his eyes slightly watery and smiling, simultaneously blissfully lost in the task at hand and completely, utterly aware of the effect he’s having on David. _So pretty_ , David thinks, momentarily forgetting about his goddamned boss trying to interrupt such a moment and clutching Eggsy’s hair a tad harder as he thrusts in, his cock hitting the back of Eggsy’s throat and making Eggsy hum louder, and it’s so _fucking_ good, but his ears just won’t stop ringing, and he feels his fingertips vibrating, now, too, and—

“Shit, fuck,” he huffs, trying his hardest against his best animal instincts to put a stop to the sweet torture of getting a slow blowjob first thing in the morning. “I— _oh_ , God,” he loses it once more, now that Eggsy has taken the hint and gotten David’s dick out of his mouth but seems to still be insisting on stroking and kissing it, spreading wetness down the shaft and still looking up at David with big doe eyes. It’s all so effortless; _definitely not his first rodeo_ , David reasons—and yet, he’s making David feel like there’s never been anyone else before him. Eggsy’s got a way to it. A way to make him feel special. “Ye’re gonny kill me,” David chuckles as he shakes his head and bites down hard on his lower lip. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Eggsy says, with a wink and a smirk. “You’re buzzing, by the way.”

“Yeah, I know. Been trying to— _ah_ , fuck off,” David cuts himself off as Eggsy places a wet, open-mouthed kiss on the end of his cock. He takes a breath, then lets out a desperate chuckle and continues. “Been trying to tell ye, should probably take this one.”

Eggsy rolls his eyes comically. “I do admire your work ethic, but should you really?”

As if Andrew could have heard Eggsy’s suggestion, David sees the call going unanswered and he feels himself stopping from buzzing. He smiles down at Eggsy, instinctively rolling his hips forward to show that maybe (just maybe) they can carry on on their merry way after all.

“Apparently no—”

“David,” Andrew’s voice interrupts, presumably coming from one of the secure comms channels that they normally just use for mission control. “Why won’t you answer your bloody phone?”

David’s eyes widen in shock and outrage. He knows it’s wrong, but his body is presently refusing not to give into Eggsy’s generous attentions; also, absolutely _fuck_ Andrew for imposing his presence this way, he reasons, stifling a loud moan as Eggsy nonchalantly swallows his cock once more.

“Busy,” David replies, trying to sound as normal as possible.

“Busy with what, exactly? This isn’t a _holiday_ we’re offering you. I should remind you—you’re actually fine; Galahad should be recovering, but _you_ should be working. Not faffing around.”

“Oh absolutely get tae fuck, Andrew,” David manages, not quite sure how. He’s aware he sounds strained, but he doesn’t much mind. “Ye don’ get to talk to me like that, or at least not until you fecking…” He pauses, draws in a deep breath, takes Eggsy’s head in both hands and feels a fire roaring inside him. “...apologise.” _Apologise to this wonderful man you almost got killed with your mistrust in him and blind faith in your own employees. And get off your damned high horse, while you’re at it._

“Apologise for _what_?” Andrew sounds as infuriated as David feels. 

“I’ll let ye figure that one out for yerself. Or give Merlin a call, if ye can’ manage. Bye, Andrew.”

“David, wait, wh—”

David doesn’t let him finish his sentence, however, because he’s already closed his left fist tight and used the command he so rarely uses, the one that completely disconnects the Clansman network, and thrown his head against the wall to finally, finally enjoy getting lost into Eggsy’s mouth once again, this time without any possible interruptions.

*

**_Seven Sisters safehouse. Day 13. 12:44 PM_ **

But of course, because being totally disconnected when one works as part of an international private spy network is virtually impossible, interruptions still do come. It’s David’s mobile phone, at first: still Andrew trying to reach him, obviously. When the calls don’t go through, Andrew starts texting, so David realises he has to turn his phone off as well as the network communications. Before he does, however, he does take the time to send a short text back— _When you’re ready, the cottage landline is open_. When he tells Eggsy about it, Eggsy bursts into laughter.

“Your tech genius boss, calling on a ye olde telephone to apologise to a little shit like me? Please, Budd.”

As predicted, at least for a few days, they don't hear from Andrew at all, and after Eggsy finally checks in with Merlin via his glasses to let him know that he’s alright, and that he’ll just need a few more days off to properly recover, peace falls temporarily back onto the small paradise of the little seaside cottage with the gorgeous panorama of the Seven Sisters white cliffs.

It’s hard, however, for David to take time and fully appreciate the beauty of nature when, just inside the house, he can admire such views as Eggsy half-naked in his bed, Eggsy dripping while getting out of the shower, Eggsy in trackies and a cardigan browsing Arthur’s bookshelves for something to read—and, as this early afternoon, Eggsy doing the washing up from lunch in nothing but a white T-shirt and tight black boxers in front of a very open kitchen window, basking in the sunlight. 

Equally, whenever David is hit by such a spectacle, it’s hard not to stare. Ultimately, however, the hardest thing is to stop himself from dropping whatever he’s doing, walking over to Eggsy, and touching him. So hard, in fact, that David never actually tries. Good thing he doesn’t really have to.

“Please, reassure me,” he seductively whispers in Eggsy’s ear as he adheres his front to Eggsy’s back, “you _do_ do this on purpose, don’t ye?”

Eggsy chuckles, dropping some cutlery into the sink and sending some water splashing around the counter and onto his shirt. He reaches an arm above his head and presses David closer, the way he does when he wants his neck kissed.

“Do what on purpose?”

David’s kisses on Eggsy’s neck turn into gentle bites, and he feels Eggsy’s breathing change a bit, getting deeper. He shifts one of his hands from Eggsy’s hips onto his lower abs and gets his thumb under the waistband of his boxers, deliberately teasing.

“The whole walking around with no trousers on, parading the goods.” David gets his other hand on Eggsy’s bum, squeezing appreciatively. “You know I can’t resist this.”

“Who says you should?” Eggsy replies, arching his back into David’s touch and letting out a small satisfied sigh when David snakes both hands down his pants—one in the front, the other in the back. “Although, darling, I _would_ very much like to finish doing the washing up. Mum says you should never leave residues of egg on dishes for too long.”

David shakes his head and leans closer to bite Eggsy’s lobe, feeling him shiver. “Oh, don’ mind me,” he says, smiling against Eggsy’s skin. “Promise, you won’t even know I’m here.”

One minute later sees Eggsy’s pants discarded somewhere on the floor, David on his knees, and Eggsy bent over the sink, gripping the sides of it as David spreads his arsecheeks out to get better access.

“Quiet,” David murmurs—when, after rimming Eggsy for a while, Eggsy finally gives up on trying to contain himself and his small whimpers turn into shameless loud moans. “Windae’s still open, love.”

“Fuck that,” Eggsy breathes, “who d’you think—”

“Bridget! Come here, love! The Coast Guards are in, after all!” an unfamiliar voice calls out, somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen window. “Good morning, sir!”

David can’t see anything, but he does know that the plane of grass in front of that side of the house is at such an angle that won’t allow whoever’s out there to see him, so he continues on his merry way for a while. When Eggsy doesn’t reply to the man’s greeting, however, he stops to deliver a small slap on one of his buttocks and laughs softly.

“C’mon, love. Ye’re standing at the window, he can see you. Don’ want to be rude, do ye? Say hi.”

So, albeit grudgingly, Eggsy does. He greets both hikers in a shaky voice, and then sustains a brief Q&A session about the activity of the Coast Guards on the cliffside, and how the weather has been kind, this spring, and how jolly good it feels to be outside to breathe in a little sea air, all while David mercilessly tortures him with his tongue and fingers and ponders out loud how hard he’s going to fuck him later, when no one’s looking.

“Fuck, you _bastard_ ,” Eggsy half-whispers, apparently loud enough for the hikers to hear.

“Beg your pardon?” the lady replies, in a scandalised posh tone worthy of a royal.

“No, no, sorry,” Eggsy scrambles, his voice now completely strangled. “It’s just—”

“Are you quite alright, my dear fellow?” the woman’s husband asks, sounding genuinely concerned. 

“Hunky-dory, sir. Just—” he pauses, theatrically turns to look behind himself, “ _droppedsomething_ ,” he adds, hurriedly, “and now I can hear my phone ringing, I’m afraid. Duty calls. Another hard day of coast-guarding ahead! Lovely talking to you, have yourselves a lovely rest of your hike!” Eggsy says all that very quickly, and David looks up in time to see him wave the hikers goodbye. Then, Eggsy turns his head again, to look down at him, and he can help but smile mischievously up as he meets Eggsy’s reproaching but unmistakably amused expression.

“What?” David asks, with the most innocent look in his eyes, placing a soft kiss on the side of Eggsy’s bum.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You like it.”

“What, trying and failing to have a normal conversation with a couple of strangers while you go to town on my arse?”

David laughs, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and rises to his feet. “That, yes. But in general, being watched.”

Eggsy unexpectedly blushes. “Goodness. I’m like an open book to you, aren’t I?”

“‘Fraid so. D’ye mind?” David asks, with a small smile, caressing Eggsy’s cheek with the back of his hand.

Eggsy shakes his head. “Not even a little bit. If anything, it makes me want you more.” He then reaches a hand towards the window.

David gently blocks his wrist. “What’re ye doin’?”

“Closing this window so you can continue what you were doing?”

David smiles a tad wider. “Nah. Keep it open, love. Let them hear you.”

Eggsy looks awestricken. “God, David,” he whispers, shifting back into his previous position and arching his back so his butt juts out a little more. “I fuckin’ love you.”

*

**_Seven Sisters safehouse. Day 15. 9:37 PM_ **

As much as it might seem as though every moment they are being bombarded from every side, seeking updates on Eggsy’s recovery or just the constant buzz of activity of deliveries or check-ins at the cottage, the hectic (and sex-filled) moments are also delightfully interspersed with lovely quiet moments, just the two of them basking in the cosy afterglow on the bed, sofa or even the floor—really, any adjacent surface where they can curl against one another and just _be_. 

On one such evening, David finds himself stretched out on the floor in front of the sitting room hearth, blanket curled around his shoulders as he gratefully accepts the steaming cup shoved rather unceremoniously under his nose, while Eggsy flops himself onto the floor next to him to burrow under the blanket and tuck his _ungodly cold fingers_ against David’s warm flank.

“Hey now! I thought you were getting tea, not rooting around in the ice box!” he complains, doing his best to wiggle as far away from the frigid appendages as he can. 

“Why’d you think I wanted tea, you tosser? I’m bloody freezing. And clearly, you’re no help to me at all. Get a bloke a hot beverage and he won’t even help you warm your poor cold fingers. Where has chivalry gone, I wonder.”

David raises an incredulous eyebrow and takes in the unrepentant grin on Eggsy’s face, before breaking and pulling him closer to his body, carefully juggling the two mugs of hot tea between them and deftly navigating Eggsy’s icy fingers, which made a second attempt at the warm skin under his jumper. 

Eggsy settles against him with a soft, happy sigh, cradling his mug close to his chest and rubbing his face against David’s pecs. “I’m so bloody happy, you know? This is perfect.”

David opens his mouth to respond but, as happens to be a very annoyingly recurring theme these days, he’s cut off by the shrill ringing of the landline telephone. He starts violently, nearly upending his scalding tea in his lap before hastily setting it aside. _Wouldn’t it just be my fucking luck?_ He rolls his eyes at his lover, pecking him softly on his upturned lips before reluctantly pulling away to stand up and trudge towards the telephone table in the front hall. Trust Harry Hart to have the most disruptive, inconvenient, mood-shattering apparatus on the planet in his bloody safehouse. David has loved the freedom of being without all the tech and constant disruptions since he turned off the network, but bloody hell is that _fucking_ thing ever annoying.

“‘Lo?” he grumbles into the receiver of the old rotary phone. 

There is a lengthy pause, long enough that David contemplates just hanging up the receiver with a satisfying clunk before heading back to the sofa and his (hopefully) now warm lover. Just as he is about to actually do it, and has already started dreaming of flopping himself in front of the hearth, a long—and very familiar—rattling sigh sounds over the line. 

David’s eyebrows shoot up. _Has he finally lowered himself to call on an actual phone?_ The man is clearly full of surprises.

“Resigned yourself to slumming it, mate?” he shoots into the silence with a wry grin. 

“Don’t make this harder than it already is Wallace,” comes the terse reply from Andrew. “I’m already doing this.”

“Are ye, now? If that is the case, you’re definitely talking to the wrong person. Shall I fetch Galahad for ye, or did ye want to sit in silence until I hang up and you have to call again?” David snarks. _Please, sit in silence,_ he pleads, hoping desperately for the chance to hang up the heavy receiver in the ear of his insufferable know-it-all colleague. 

Eggsy, obviously having heard his codename mentioned across the room, cranes his neck and shoots David a questioning glance, the _‘Is that for me?’_ clearly written all over his handsome face. David rolls his eyes and nods his head, already exasperated with the childish stalling happening on the other end of the line.

“Alright, then. As it seems that Galahad is much more of an adult than you are—no surprise there—he has graciously decided to put you out of yer misery. Don’ fuck it up,” David threatens with a low growl before handing over the handset. “Don’ take it easy on him, love. He really doesn’t deserve it,” he whispers, kissing Eggsy on the cheek as he walks back to the lounge. As much as he would love to stay and supervise any ensuing childishness, it isn’t his place to interfere any more than he already has. Hopefully Andrew won’t put his foot in it yet again.

As David drops back onto the nest of blankets and pillows that he and Eggsy just abandoned in front of the fire, he hears a cool, “Alright Hume, get on with it, I’ve got better things to do than to hear you dither over pleasantries.” 

David closes his eyes and tunes out the remainder of the conversation—knowing that Eggsy will fill him in on the particulars when he returns—but also steeling himself for the inevitable onslaught that the completion of this call will bring. That is to say, this invariably marks the end of any relative peace and quiet to be had. Andrew wouldn’t have called unless he was actually going to apologise, which in turn means that David will be inevitably forced into turning the network back on. 

_I suppose the honeymoon can’t last forever_ , he thinks to himself. _Back to reality… whatever that may be. And definitely time to get back to work—well, maybe not_ quite _back to work, yet_ , he ponders, shooting a lascivious grin in Eggsy’s direction as he sees Eggsy lean back against the wall and catch his eye with a dry eye roll. 

_Seems that call is going as well as expected._ He smirks to himself. _Perhaps I should make this worth his while._ He thinks, levering himself up and stalking back towards Eggsy. _Hopefully Hume wraps this up soon or he will be getting a bit of a show. But fuck him, he deserves it. My boy more than deserves a reward._

*

**_Seven Sisters safehouse. Day 17. 2:56 PM_ **

“So, I’ve been thinking…”

That’s how it very often starts, these days. Eggsy _thinks_ , quite a bit. And Eggsy has _fantastic ideas_ as a result of all that thinking.

Somehow, in eight years of service, it never occurred to David that the impressive tech that he’s got access to as a result of being a part of Clansman could be used for recreational purposes, too. Actually, that’s inaccurate: he did think about it, once, when he was still with Vicky. But it was fleeting, and impossible to try out, since Vicky never knew about the network, Clansman—well, about _anything_ , really. And none of his partners after her did, either. (Certainly not the Home Secretary. God forbid. The shitstorm _that_ might have caused. He shivers at the thought.) Except for Julia, of course… But Julia was in charge, then. And they were drunk, too. And there was no other time after that.

But now Eggsy is in David’s life. And most of the time Eggsy knows what he likes, wants, craves, and it’s so incredibly easy to please him, David feels like a sexual superhuman. The most fun times by far, however, are the ones when Eggsy doesn’t actually _know_ if it’ll feel good or weird, if it’ll be hard or easy—but he’s always up for trying anyways. And yeah, he truly does have the best ideas. Amongst others, he came up with one over breakfast yesterday: the next time someone calls David up via the Clansman network, they’d drop anything they’re doing and David would let the call go unanswered.

Which is how they’ve found themselves awkwardly sprawled on the carpeted stairs of the cottage, Eggsy’s underwear once again flung away unceremoniously, and two of David’s buzzing fingers inside Eggsy. 

David can read it in his eyes—sheer ecstasy, mixed with dread that whoever is calling David will eventually stop trying. Which is hilarious, really, considering _who’s_ calling.

“It’s yer boss, pet,” David reassures him, with a sly smirk. He sees the realisation paint itself on Eggsy’s face, and the remains of his composure dissolve completely. Such a beautiful view. “He won’t stop until we get this one. Bet yer glasses on the nightstand are on fire as well.”

“Fuck him, fuck—oh, _God_ ,” Eggsy sobs, bending one knee and spreading his legs wider. He rolls his hips forward, wraps a hand around his own cock and reaches the other one out, fingers finding the back of David’s head and pulling him in for a heated kiss. “Fuck, so… So good…” 

David lets out a breathy chuckle and bites down on Eggsy’s lower lip as he curls his fingers upwards and spreads them out a bit more. He watches Eggsy’s face change again, then: his lips part and his brow furrows—he looks almost startled, shocked, uncomprehending of how good he’s feeling. And then he throws his head back against the steps and makes another unholy noise, halfway between a plea and a moan.

“You know you can ask for more,” David suggests, slowing his thrusts just a tad. 

“N-No, slow… slow… is nice… _perfect_ , fuck,” Eggsy stutters in reply, his hand on his own cock also slowing down to match the pace of David’s fingers.

David raises an eyebrow. “Oh, didn’ mean that. I mean I have a higher setting, on this thing.” 

He smirks at his own smugness, waiting for Eggsy to look back up at him and see that shocked face once more. Eggsy delivers only a few seconds later, pairing his reaction with a few swear words and a frantic nod that says _yes please, do buzz me harder_. 

So, David does. He also adds a third finger, for good measure, and in next to no time Eggsy is louder than he’s ever been. One second, he’s all coiled up and tense—the other, he’s ruining yet another shirt (David’s, this time), deep navy cotton stained with streaks of white.

Eggsy is so boneless by the end of it that David actually has to peel the shirt off him, scoop him up and carry him to the upstairs bathroom to clean up. As he does, his clothed and rather raging hard-on is most definitely pressed into Eggsy’s lube-slick naked butt. No matter, however. He’s in no hurry; he figures there’ll definitely be time to take care of that later.

“Uh-oh,” Eggsy says, a few minutes later, as they step into the bedroom to retrieve some clean clothes. David can see him looking concernedly at the tiny red light blinking on the corner of his Kingsman glasses, still discarded on the mahogany nightstand.

“Did ye look? I did—got eighteen missed calls so far,” David says. That makes Eggsy smile again.

“Yeah, you do,” Eggsy says, winking, then joining his hands in prayer and looking up at the ceiling dramatically. “God bless the Clansman network.” He looks at David again and smirks. “And God bless Merlin, too. Even if he’s absolutely gonna tear us both new arseholes, for this.”

“Worth it, then?” David asks, smiling and leaning in to steal a kiss.

Eggsy nods into the kiss. “Yes, worth it. Every minute. Fucking hell, my boyfriend is a human vibrator.”

David shakes his head and can’t help but blush for a second—until it hits him. The word Eggsy’s just used. “Your…”

“Yeah,” Eggsy interrupts, in a smug tone. “What, too soon?” he asks, raising a questioning eyebrow. “Or you just don’t like labels?”

“No, it’s…” David shakes his head and looks down, feeling his cheeks flush. “I just feel very lucky, is all.”

Eggsy smiles and walks closer, standing on his tiptoes to kiss David’s nose. “You’re such a giant sap, Budd. I love you.”

*

**_Five minutes later_ **

“Care to explain yerselves?” Merlin barks, as soon as the call connects. He pops up in the middle of the living room, standing in all his glowing blue hologram glory, looking furious. “I’ve been trying to call you, both, for at least half an hour.”

“We just went for a stroll on the beach!” Eggsy urgently blurts. _Shameless, my love_ , David smugly thinks. _Well done._

“Oh, spare me the pleasantries, Galahad,” Merlin deadpans, adjusting his glasses further up his nose. He points his pen at both of them in turn. “May I remind you that I was there for quite a few of yer… I believe the politically correct term is ‘public displays of affection’. And Eggsy, I know that look on yer face.”

David feels like he should step in, so he does. “Merlin, we’re s—” 

Merlin raises a hand to cut David off. “Wallace. Please. There’s really no need for any of that. I’m very happy for you both. There’s just urgent business at hand, is all. Things to discuss.”

“Understood,” David replies, in his best impression of himself as a young, complying member of the military, successfully concealing a satisfied smile. “Any updates from Glasgow ye care tae share, boss?”

For the first time since David has known him, Merlin looks uncomfortable. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it again. _Was that such a hard question?_ Mildly shocked, he turns to glance at Eggsy, and he’s not surprised to find a giant smirk on his face.

“Merlin?” Eggsy chirps, in a sing-song tone. “You _have_ been talking to Hume, haven’t you?”

Merlin clears his throat and adjusts his glasses further up his nose. He fixes them with his signature stern gaze for a few, interminable seconds, then finally speaks. “No,” he admits. “I haven’t. We’re still performing checks to ensure the safety of both our communications networks—we cannot allow any further breaches from now on.” He pauses, visibly weighing his words. His expression softens a bit. “And then, well…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, so Eggsy presses on. “And then?”

Merlin grumbles. “Fine, alright. And then there’s the fact that I’m terribly cross at him for putting my best agent in such unnecessary danger, I suppose. Ye happy?”

Eggsy hums contentedly. “See, David. I told you. He _cares_ ,” he says, turning to lovingly gaze up at David.

“Aw, Merlin. Ya big softie.”

“Aye, aye, very well,” Merlin dismisses them, with a wave of his hand, and reprising his signature stern look. “This is quite enough.”

“He did apologise to me, you know,” Eggsy says, softly, discreetly locking hands with David behind his back. “This one,” he adds, glancing up at David, “was very persuasive.”

“With respect, Merlin,” David presses on, grateful for Eggsy’s loving touches, but also aware of how important the matter is. “You _should_ talk to Hume. I know you can’t just take my word for it, but last I heard the security of the comms channels were being upgraded, and everyone was being thoroughly examined for bites and went through a lie-detector test, to weed out any other potential moles.”

Merlin seems to consider David’s words for a beat, then nods. “Very glad to hear that. I’ll see what I can do. I understand that agents Lancelot and Moray have been in contact over… traditional channels, let’s say. I’ll get the latest from Lancelot and try to take it from there.” He raises his eyes to the ceiling in defeat. “With Hume, that is.” 

“Good man, Merlin,” Eggsy says, cheerfully. “I’m sure he misses you too.”

“Very much so,” David eggs him on, grinning mischievously.

“I don’ _miss_ him. Fuck off, you two. Go back to whatever you were doing when you neglected to answer my call, and let me take care of the rest, eh?”

David playfully squeezes one of Eggsy’s buttocks, making him jump in surprise. “With great pleasure, Merlin.”

*

**_Seven Sisters safehouse. Day 19. 4:38 PM_ **

The steam in the tiny bathroom is so thick it curls around them like a blanket, in counterpoint to the slick feeling of the near-scalding water pounding dully into David’s upper back. He pays the hot water no mind, however, as he twines his arms gently around Eggsy’s strong shoulders, pulling him a step closer before following the long line of muscles down his back to grip firmly at the firm, round globes of his exquisite bum, currently sudsy and slick and absolutely delectable. 

He hears Eggsy moan low in his throat, and he leans forward to catch his lips in a searing kiss, feeling Eggsy’s hands running up his toned stomach, pausing briefly to toy with his nipples. David hums in response, and Eggsy kisses him again, before continuing up to thread his fingers in the short curls at the base of his neck, tugging lightly and causing a shot of pleasure-pain to fizz down his spine. 

“Alright, you. Cut that out now, eh? We promised not to get carried away. We have that call coming in from Merlin, remember…” David gasps out as Eggsy mouths and bites at the column of his throat, raking his fingers lightly down his back.

Eggsy pulls back with an incredulous look and a raised eyebrow. “Me? Who was it that was not five minutes ago feeling me up like a letch and still hasn’t taken his hands off my arse?” he asks, wiggling his butt, still trapped between David’s palms, inadvertently causing his hard erection to grind lightly into David’s own. 

“Tart,” David breathes out, ignoring Eggsy’s accusation, before pulling him closer and grinding their hot and water-slick erections together with more purpose.

“Mmhmmm—yes, I am. But I still think you have this blame game the wrong way round, love.” Eggsy cheekily draws away slightly, making David chase his lips; in vain, David realises, because Eggsy seems to have other plans than to kiss him. He’s slowly dragging his body south along David’s own, kissing, licking and biting his way down his chest, nosing gently around his navel, licking at the divots of his hip bones, and finally burying his face in the coarse curls at the base of his cock—tongue darting out to lick at the water droplets gathering there. 

_BRRRRRRRRRRING_

Both David and Eggsy startle violently, causing Eggsy’s head to jerk forward and bump firmly into David’s stomach, his nose crushing painfully into David’s balls. 

“ _Fuuuuck!”_ David yells, reaching down to try to protect his tender privates, inadvertently pushing Eggsy away and causing himself to shift his centre of balance backwards, feet slipping on the slick enamel of the clawfoot tub. As he begins to topple back, he sees the panic in Eggsy’s eyes as he realises what’s happening. As if it was all happening in slow motion, he can feel Eggsy attempting to scramble to his feet in the milliseconds between incident and realisation, trying to stop his fall and… catch him? He isn’t even sure anymore. 

However, instead of strong hands and arms breaking his fall, he feels the brush of fabric at his back, his knees buckling at the press of the lip of the tub, and his arms beginning to windmill wildly in an attempt to regain his balance. He hears the _ping-ping-ping_ of the shower curtain rings as—inevitably, tragically—they detach themselves one by one from the rod above their heads. Within moments, David is flat on his back, legs in the air draped over the side of the tub and his head has thudded painfully against the slick tile, thankfully missing the marble vanity by a scarce couple of centimetres. Small mercies, although his back is a long line of thudding, throbbing pain from hips to crown. Bruised, along with his ego. 

David cracks open an eye, a burst of pain flaring with the motion and the sudden onslaught of light and stimulation. Meanwhile, the phone continues to ring, giving his slightly battered brain no chance for relief. 

He hears Eggsy scramble out of the tub and wedge himself in the microscopic space next to him, and he feels soft fingers trace gently down his cheek.

“David?” He hears his voice call softly, clearly sensitive to any potential head injury. “Are you alright?”

David chuckles and then moans softly at the lance of pain through his head. Nothing life-ending, but he will be tender for a day or two, most likely.

“Mostly my dignity that’s bruised love, not to worry,” he says comfortingly while reaching wildly for Eggsy’s hand. Eggsy, immediately realising what David is looking for, catches his questing hand and threads their fingers together, kissing his knuckles. David, while happy with the tender moment, takes advantage of the situation by tugging on their linked hands, causing Eggsy to flop down chest-first onto him. 

“Wha—! David! Be careful!” Eggsy exclaims, visibly doing his best to try not to crush him or disturb any yet to be noted injuries. 

“Oh I’m _fine_ , pet. More so now that you’re here with me.” David once again cracks his eyes open to look at his lover’s lovely square jaw and undeniably concerned grey-blue eyes. 

Eggsy catches his very pink bottom lip between his teeth, worrying it gently as he thinks. “Maybe I should call Jane—just to be sure.”

 _Nuh-uh_ , David thinks to himself before changing tactics. _Distraction time._

He grinds his still hard cock up, slotting it neatly next to Eggsy’s own. Eggsy, while also still hard, has seemingly lost some of his mojo to his concern for David potentially hurting himself, but thankfully it doesn’t take long for him to react favourably to David’s ministrations. Eggsy’s mouth falls half-open, and he shoots him an incredulous look.

“Seriously, David? _Oh—_ ” he cuts himself off as David’s other hand, unseen, snakes its way back to its favourite spot, dragging calloused fingertips gently across the rosy pucker between his lover’s beautiful cheeks. _Bingo_.

“You were saying, my love?” David asks innocently, simultaneously grinding up and teasing lightly at the ring of muscle.

“Ooohhh you bastard,” Eggsy breathes out, breath hitching as he tries to figure out if he should grind back against David’s hand or against his cock. 

David grins shamelessly. “Told you I’m perfectly fine, love. Now let’s not let these hard-ons go to waste, now, shall we? It seems we’ve already missed Merlin’s call, so... no use rushing about fretting.”

Eggsy laughs, his expression relaxing a tad. “Fuck, he’s going to be mad as a hatter that we missed _another_ call. C’mon now,” Eggsy whispers into David’s shoulder, while David dips a fingertip past his tight entrance, simultaneously driving his hips up, making Eggsy moan loudly. “ _Fuckfuckfuck_ , David _._ Fuck me—please...” 

David withdraws the digit, toying gently once again with the rim. _Fuck, I love how responsive this man is_. _Fucking perfect._

He sets forth to do exactly as Eggsy was demanding, but stops abruptly as a brilliant idea strikes him. He pulls his hands away, making Eggsy whine desperately as he pushes him up and clambers gingerly to his feet beside him. 

“I’ve got a better idea,” he tells Eggsy with a wicked grin, turning to shut off the water of the shower which, for the past five minutes, has been steadily splashing out onto the tile and antique furniture around them. _I mean, really: who keeps antiques in their bloody bathroom? Harry fucking Hart, that’s who._ “Let’s mess up some more antiques around here, shall we, my love?” he queries with a roguish wink before leading a bemused Eggsy out of the wet room; meanwhile, the hall phone continues to ring madly in the background. 

*

There’s an antique credenza in the living room, that possibly dates to some time in the 1800’s. It’s impeccably polished, no sign of woodworm damage, and filled with all kinds of priceless Scotch, cognac, wine and spirit glasses made out of the finest crystal, and hand-painted china. For these reasons—plus the fact that, if he’s honest, he loves looking at what he bets is an original Monet painting hanging just above—the credenza is the first thing he thinks of after suggesting they rough up the cottage a little more than they already have (just a little bit, for shits and giggles).

And Eggsy’s naked frame looks so lovely indeed, bent over this magnificent piece of furniture, his knuckles white with the effort of gripping onto the edge, pale cream against deep, crimson cherry wood, the muscles in his back contracting against David’s palm, sprawled between his shoulder blades, his head resting on the surface of the credenza... he looks like the most sinful classical painting David never had the pleasure to lay eyes on before, but that he now never wants to stop looking at.

“F— _ah_ ,” Eggsy gasps, leveraging himself to a more upright position as David drives in and out of him relentlessly, “fuck me harder, c’mon, please.”

David breathes in sharply, feeling Eggsy clench around his cock, and leans in to whisper in his ear. “We need tae be careful, love. We’re gonny break something.” Not that he cares, really. He’s just playing a game.

“I thought that was the p—” Eggsy cuts himself off once more, arching his back and allowing David to step in a tad closer, snaking a hand under Eggsy’s arm and caressing his lower abdomen, pressing down to still him as he delivers and does, indeed, fuck him harder. “God, yes, like that…”

The cadenced bumping of Eggsy’s thighs against the credenza gets louder and louder as David intensifies the pace, and the rattling of fragile objects inside it gets menacing, and yes, David does find himself shamefully hoping that some of the precious glassware and knick-knacks get a couple of ugly cracks as a result of their lovemaking. When he feels Eggsy getting close—he’s getting better and better at knowing Eggsy’s body now, all its small twitches and quirks when he’s aroused, desperate, losing it—he closes his hand around Eggsy’s dick and pumps it in rhythm with his thrusts. 

“D’ye want to come, love?” David asks, almost breathless, trying to keep his act together, even if this feels almost unbearably good. (And yes, the secret power play of roughing up Arthur’s furniture definitely contributes to it.)

“I…” He pauses, breathless, and David stills, both his thrusts and his hand. “Fuck, David, wh—”

“I want to hear you ask for it,” David interrupts, whispering low, before lightly biting Eggsy’s earlobe and feeling him shiver under his touch. “Nicely.”

Eggsy arches into him with a loud moan, then turns his head slightly to catch his lips. “Please,” he says, in a desperate tone. “ _Please_ , David.”

David grins and bites on Eggsy’s lower lip. “Good boy.” He pulls out and thrusts in once, twice, sharply, then stills again. “Are you mine, Eggsy?”

Eggsy nods frantically, kissing him again, his hums of assent vibrating through David’s lips and tongue. “Yes,” Eggsy says, briefly breaking the kiss and locking eyes with him. “Yes, David. I’m yours.”

Not long after, Eggsy comes—the pale white evidence of his climax adorning Arthur’s precious antique furniture, and David’s name on his lips. _Just how it should be_ , David thinks, as he also tips over the edge, his fingers clutching Eggsy’s hips in a bruising hold, and happier that he’s been in years.

*

**_Seven Sisters safehouse. Day 20. 6:45 PM_ **

David is halfway through peeling potatoes to make some mash to go with the haggis that is currently in the oven—one of his most outrageous food requests, sure, but apparently trouble in paradise between Clansman and Kingsman must be no more, because Fred didn’t even bat an eyelid when David handed him the grocery list—when Eggsy all but bursts into the kitchen, still half-dripping from his shower and only a towel wrapped around his lower body.

“Hey, hey, hey!” he exclaims, pointing at his own face—his glasses, David swiftly realises. 

“Hey, pet,” David greets, feeling himself smile as Eggsy approaches. He turns his head and strains his neck forward to catch a little kiss. When they part, David glances up and down Eggsy’s body, catching the bits where he’s still wet from the poor job he’s done of drying himself off. “Ever told you you’re gorgeous?”

“Mmh yes, you mentioned,” Eggsy replies, now tracing David’s jawline with both his hands and looking moderately distracted already. Suddenly, he seems to catch himself. “You… I swear to God, you turn me into the weakest-willed schoolboy.”

David shakes his head and steals another kiss. “I do try.”

“Yeah, yeah, as if,” Eggsy replies, chuckling and pushing David away a tad. He looks amused, but also very serious. “This,” he says, gesturing at David’s body, “I can have later. Just let me get to it, now, you tempter. Rox just sent me the best thing I’ve seen in a very long while. I need you to see it too. Immediately.”

David quirks an eyebrow, intrigued. “Does it need my full attention, or can I keep peeling my tatties?”

“It absolutely _does_ need your full attention, you arse. Here, look.”

Eggsy swipes forward on the side of his glasses, and casts a video on the blank wall space near the fridge. In front of them is a door, half-open, and inside the room is a very familiar figure, and in front of him…

_Oh, boy. He was right: this is going to be good._

_“Oh. My. God,”_ says a familiar female voice, in a hushed tone. Roxy. _“Eggs, I think Mum and Dad are making up. Hold on, let me get closer, can’t hear a bloody thing from here.”_

Merlin is standing straight as a soldier. His back is almost entirely turned against the door, so only a small part of his expression is visible—but everyone who knows the man also knows that he is unlikely to be smiling. Especially now, when the person he looks to be talking to is the hologram of Andrew, of all people.

_“I was told you might have something for me, Hume. Updates.”_

Andrew doesn’t speak; he just looks halfway between cross and ashamed, visibly trying to lean on cross, and failing miserably. David can tell he’s quite scared of Merlin, at the moment. Can’t blame him, either.

 _“You know, for work? Saving the world, and all that?”_ Merlin presses on, sounding even angrier. _“The thing that you and the other sneaky wee shites in yer staff have been neglecting for some time, now.”_

_“I won’t let you talk to me like that, Merlin,” Andrew finally says, breaking his silence. “There was an issue—”_

_“—understatement of the year,”_ Merlin cuts him off, scornful.

 _“A_ major _issue,”_ Andrew corrects himself, impatiently, raising his voice a tad. _“But it’s been dealt with. Everything’s fine, now. New measures are in place, everyone’s been vetted...”_

 _“And what about the part where my agent effectively told you how to do yer job, weeks ago, and you made a point to immediately dismiss his concern without any kind of explanation? What the ever-loving_ fuck _was that about, eh, Hume?”_

“Gosh,” David whispers, enthralled. “Babe, they sound like us. You know, back when…”

“...when you hated my guts, yes, I remember,” Eggsy finishes for him, chuckling.

“Ye ken I never did, right?”

“Yes, yes, I love you too. Now shh, watch this.”

 _“What do you want me to tell you, Merlin? That I was way too confident in my own security protocols and software? That, unlike you posh toffs at Kingsman, I may or may not trust my employees a tad too much, because I actually love them as friends?”_ He stops talking for a second, and his expression changes. As if he was dropping a mask, somehow. _“That, all in all, I was a bloody idiot and I really should have listened to Galahad and done what he suggested?”_ He sounds a tad desperate, slowly unravelling that ball of accumulated worries and small-to-medium-to-gigantic fuck-ups he’s been working his way through for several months, now. _Bless him_ , David thinks. _He’s only human, after all._

 _“For example, yes,”_ Merlin replies, coolly.

Andrew sighs and rubs his face with both hands. _“I_ am _a bloody idiot, Merlin. I am. I do feel responsible for all the shit that has been going wrong. If you really want to know, I haven’t had more than three hours’ sleep every night since this entire thing has started.”_ He pauses, then crosses his arms in front of himself: it’s not a defiant pose, it’s to protect himself, David realises. _“I’m sorry, Merlin. I truly am. I know how many things could have gone wrong, and how much we actually owe to the competence and, sometimes, the recklessness of our respective agents.”_

“Aw, babe. Did you hear that? We’re _competent_.” Eggsy gives him another of those adoring glances that he can’t get enough of.

“And ‘reckless’, I believe he said,” David adds, grinning broadly.

“Fuck yes, we are. And the world could thank us a little more often for it, frankly.”

 _“Thank you for that,”_ they hear Merlin say, and they turn their attention back to the recording. Some tension in Merlin’s shoulders seems to have eased. _“Yes, you definitely should have. He’s a good lad, even if I do want to bash his head in with a hammer most days.”_

 _“That is rude,”_ Roxy comments, _“but also extremely accurate.”_

David snorts, and Eggsy throws him a searing look. “Watch it, you,” he says, fake-steely. 

David just shrugs and kisses his temple. “You’re so cute when you’re angry.”

Andrew laughs too, nervously but also genuinely. _“Right on the money, old friend. Don’t know where we’d be without him, though.”_

 _“It’s that great duality, really, isn’t it. He’s a bit of a rascal, bless him, but we couldn’t possibly do without him. The bane of my existence, believe me,”_ Merlin sighs, dramatically. If David wasn’t sure it could never happen, he could swear he’s now seeing the ghost of a smile on the bit of Merlin’s face that is visible to them. But surely not. Impossible.

 _“We good, then?”_ Andrew asks, looking and sounding very hopeful.

_“Aye, we’re good. When this is all over, though, pints are on you.”_

_“However many you like,”_ Andrew agrees, grinning.

_“Phew,” Roxy whispers, giggling softly. “We won’t be the object of a long and unpleasant custody battle, after all. Crisis averted. I miss you, Eggs. And David? Don’t wear him out too much, eh? Lancelot over and out.”_

David breaks out laughing, then turns towards Eggsy and presses a soft kiss to the side of his neck. “Maybe,” he whispers, between kisses, “ye shouldnae tell her that I plan to wear you out before, during, and after dinner, then.”

“What about your tatties?” Eggsy says, as David’s hands come down to undo the knot on his towel, which drops to the floor.

“They should cool down a bit, anyways,” David replies, grinning and crowding Eggsy against the kitchen counter. “They’re still too hot to handle.”

Eggsy raises an eyebrow. “Oh, like me, then?” 

“Yes, love: exactly like you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We reeeeally hope you enjoyed this sextravaganza, which admittedly was completely useless in terms of plot advancement, but definitely sorely needed in terms of slow burn payoff. 😉 Next time we'll see each other, we'll definitely be back on the serious stuff, though, don't worry. 
> 
> And speaking of the next time: we can't promise you a schedule, going forward. Just know that our hearts are both in it, and that we're 1000% determined to finish this. We'll get there, and we hope you'll be with us till the end.
> 
> See you soon!
> 
> Love,
> 
> M & C xx

**Author's Note:**

> In case you feel like chatting, you can find us on tumblr:  
> \- [applesfallingfromblondehair](https://applesfallingfromblondehair.tumblr.com/) (C)  
> \- [misslittlefreckles](https://misslittlefreckles.tumblr.com//) (M)  
> Come say hi! x


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